THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 
ENDOWMENT  FUND 


OLD  TIME  MEMORIES. 


OLD  TIME  MEMORIES, 


A  POEM 

READ  AT  THE  5OTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  E.  C.  SOCIETY 

OF  DELAWARE  LITERARY  INSTITUTE, 

JUNE  21,   1894, 


OTHER  POEMS, 


IRA  E.  SHERMAN. 


Illustrated. 


1895. 


JOHN  T.  MILLER 
Designing 
Engraving 
Printing 

52-54  LAFAYETTE  PLACE  N.  V. 


! 


INDEX  TO  POEMS. 

Greeting vi 

Anniversary  Poem.     (Illustrated.) 7 

OTHER  POEMS 

Proem •         .         .         .         .  35 

The  Hudson.     (Illustrated.) 37 

The  Toll-Gatherer 41 

Lines. — Suggested  by  a  Lady  reading 47 

Thank  God  for  Trees 49 

The  Farmer's  Daughter 52 

Lines. — Suggested  by  a  Visit  to  Mt.  Wilson     ....  55 

Our  River — the  Susquehannah.     (Illustrated.)       ....  57 

Yosemite.     An  Impromptu 59 

The  Ocean.     Written  on  the  Beach  at  Santa  Barbara     ...  60 

Life's  Autumn          .........  6t 

On  the  Skirmish  Line 63 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 65 

The  Czar—  Alexander  III 67 

The  Mountain  Brook 69 

An  Evening  Song.     (Illustrated.) 72 

One  Day  with  God,  Alone         .......  74 

Lines  Inscribed  to  a  Friend.— Judge  A.  S.  T.            ...  76 

In  Memoriam. — James  G.  Elaine. 77 

A  Memorial  Tribute. — Frank  D.  Curtis         .         .         .         .          .  79 

The  New  Year          ,                                      82 

Prayer,  Morning  and  Evening .84 

In  the  Studio.     (Illustrated.) 86 

One  Year  Old.     A  Birth-day  Rhyme 88 

Back  on  the  Farm  Again 90 

June 94 


762874 


iv  INDEX—  Continued. 

Now 95 

An  October  Song 97 

Morning  in  California ^        .         .          .  99 

Montana 100 

The  Typewriter's  Song     .         .         .         .         .          .         .         .  102 

Our  Uncle  Josh,  and  What  He  Says      .         .         .         .         .          .104 

Gen.  William  Tecumseh  Sherman. — In  Memoriam   .         .         .  107 

Aunt  Ruth.     (Illustrated.) 109 

A  Morning  Song 112 

Love's  House 113 

Bereft.— E.  M.  J.,  Died  September  I4th,  1893          ...  115 

California 117 

Happy  Jim 120 

Uncle  Samuel's  Conversion 124 

Christmas  Time 127 

October 129 

One  Day 132 

The  Soul's  Quest 135 

The  Great  Teacher. — An  Invocation     .         .         .         .         .          .138 

Beauty. — A  Rhapsody 141 

The  New  Year.     (Illustrated.) 144 

The  Hudson  and  the  Palisades 146 

The  New  Baby 147 

Childhood 149 

Spring  is  Coming     .         . 152 

The  Young  Mother 154 

As  Home  the  Cows  were  Driven.    (Illustrated.)         .         .          .  156 

June  is  Here 158 

The  Summer  Rain 160 

October's  Moon 162 

Memories  of  Long  Ago. — Pulling  Flax 164 

My  Trust 167 

Question  and  Answer   .          .          .          .          .          .         .         .          .169 


INDEX  TO  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FRONT  PIECE  PAGE 

THE  VILLAGE,  AND  ROUND  TOP       .       Drawn  by  G.  W.  Waters  14 

THE  OULEOUT Drawn  by  G.  W.  Waters  16 

PROFESSOR  FITCH 18 

PROFESSOR  KERR 20 

WOODLAND  BROOKS 36 

STORM  KING 38 

WEST  POINT 39 

NEW  YORK  HARBOR 40 

OUR  RIVER — SUSQUEHANNAH 58 

EVENING  SONG             ....     Drawn  by  G.  W.  Waters  72 

IN  THE  STUDIO 86 

AUNT  RUTH 101 

NEW  YEAR Drawn  by  G.  W.  Waters  144 

As  HOME  THE  Cows  WERE  DRIVEN.     Drawn  by  G.  W.  Waters  156 


GREETING. 


WITH  me,  this  Anniversary  Poem  has  been  largely  a  labor  of  love. 
I  shall  be  well  satisfied  if,  here  and  there,  some  are  found  who 
will  recall  with  me  the  events  that  I  have  sought  to  preserve  in  rhyme. 

I  apprehend  it  is  well,  even  for  busy  men  and  women,  to  recall  at 
times  the  events  of  the  past  ;  and  certainly,  in  all  our  past,  no  memories 
appeal  to  us  more  tenderly  than  those  pertaining  to  school  life.  The 
loves  we  formed,  the  ambitions  we  cherished,  have  had  their  influence 
upon  us  through  all  these  passing  years  ;  and  so  far  as  these  were  true 
and  good,  have  we  reason  to  rejoice  in  the  experiences  they  have 
brought. 

To  revive  somewhat  these  memories  has  been  my  sole  ambition  ; 
and  for  one,  I  can  truly  say  that  my  life  at  Delaware  Literary  Institute 
was  an  inspiration  that  in  a  measure  still  remains.  I  apprehend  there 
are  many  who  can  bear  like  testimony. 

The  roll  of  Teachers  at  Delaware  Literary  Institute  has  always  been 
a  roll  of  honor,  and  down  to  the  present  time,  it  has  been  most  faithfully 
served  by  true  men  and  women,  devoted  to  the  cause  of  education. 

In  the  "  Other  Poems"  that  follow,  I  have  gathered  'verses'  thai 
have  had  some  little  attention  paid  to  them,  as  they  have  appeared  in 
the  different  Periodicals  of  the  day.  They  have  been  written  when  I 
have  felt  something  of  their  spirit  ;  and  I  am  thankful  that  I  have  been 
moved,  at  sundry  times,  to  give  expression  to  thoughts  and  fancies,  that 
have  left  behind,  so  far,  no  unpleasant  experiences. 

To  my  friends  I  commend  them  cheerfully  —  they  have  been  a  part  of 
myself.  Possibly,  here  and  there,  some  may  be  found  who  will  be  glad, 
that  at  last,  they  have  been  put  in  a  form  where  they  can  be  read  —  per- 
haps criticised  —  but  whether  criticised  or  not,  I  send  them  out  as  my 
children,  bespeaking  for  them  such  recognition  as  they  may  be  entitled 
to  receive.  TH^  AUTHOR. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

<*r 

The  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  E.  C.  Society,  June  21,  1894. 


To-day  is  not  as  yesterday; 

We  have  no  heritage 
That  changes  not.     Toil  mocks  at  Play, 

And  both  alike  engage 
To  cheat  dull  sense  of  seeming  loss, 
Or  bear  for  us  life's  daily  cross. 

Into  the  New  we  press  with  haste, 

The  Old  in  shadow  lies; 
But  shadows  hide  the  barren  waste — 

Alas!  the  glowing  skies 
Are  shadowed  in  the  sombre  grey, 
And  deep'ning  shades  of  yesterday. 

We  sang  our  songs,  and  grave  or  gay, 
The  echoing  strains  were  lost — 

We  little  thought,  some  other  day, 
Perchance,  when  tempest-tost, 

Some  echoes  still,  with  cheery  strain, 

Would  reach  us  on  life's  stormy  main. 
7 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Love  guards  the  vintage  of  the  past, 

The  purple  grapes  are  prest, 
And  lo!  the  red  wine  flowing  fast, 

Is  priceless  still,  and  best; 
And  lips  that  touch  the  flowing  stain, 

The  odors  of  the  past  retain. 

Ah,  well-a-day!    If  friendship  fills 

For  us  the  brimming  glass, 
The  odors  of  the  vine-clad  hills, 

Shall  with  the  red  wine  pass; 
And  in  our  veins  a  tide  shall  swell — 
Love's  never  ceasing  miracle. 

With  thirsty  lips  we  wait  and  wait — 

The  red  wine,  let  it  flow; 
Who  drinks  with  us,  if  soon  or  late, 

Shall  feel  the  afterglow; 
These  fifty  years  of  ripe'ning  wine, 
Have  left  an  odor  half  divine. 

Aye  more;  I  hear  the  hum  of  bees — 

This  wine  has  life  its  own — 
These  are  the  old-time  memories 

That  you  and  I  have  known, 
And  whilst  we  drink,  these  bees  shall  wing 
O'er  clover  blooms,  unwithering. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

The  wine  it  sparkles  in  each  glass — 
Laughter  and  songs  are  there — 

From  lip  to  lip  then  let  it  pass, 
Forgetting  all  our  care — 

Forgetting  Age,  a  grey-beard  grown, 

And  nearing  fast  that  land  unknown. 

We  drink  to  old-time  memories — 

How  shadowy  they  seem  ! 
Like  ships  that  sail  on  airy  seas 

The  sailor  hails  in  dream 
When  drifting  wrecked,  he  knows  not  where, 
Mocked  by  these  phantoms  of  the  air. 

Faces  appear  of  comrades  old — 

We  hail  them  as  they  pass — 
This  comradeship  has  made  us  bold; 

For  each  a  brimming  glass, 
For  they  must  drink  with  us,  and  own 
Years  have,  no  fellowship  outgrown. 

In  vain  we  urge — our  hands  retain 

The  brimming  glass,  for  lo! 
Their  lips  refuse  the  proffered  stain, 

And  silently  and  slow 
They  vanish  in  the  mist  of  years, 

And  leave  us  drenched  with  falling  tears. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

We  call  them  by  the  names  they  knew — 

They  once  made  quick  reply, 
And  gave  us  counsel,  loving,  true — 

Now,  we  but  question,  why 
Silence  alone,  with  a  dumb  pain. 
Voices  the  mute  reply  we  gain. 

These  are  our  dead.      "  Not  here,"  you  say- 
Too  bold  to  question,  Where  ? 

Or  in  what  land  they  make  their  stay — 
Under  what  skies  they  share 

In  God's  great  love  ?    They  went  away, 

And  somewhere  have  abode  to-day. 

And,  living  still,  we  may  not  know 

If  here,  or  otherwhere; 
Enough,  if  by  our  faith  we  show 

That  life's  unanswered  prayer 
Gives  energy  to  Love's  behest, 
And  makes  us  own,  God  knoweth  best. 

For  aught  I  know,  in  thinner  guise 

Than  we  are  wont  to  see, 
Could  we  but  open  wide  our  eyes, 

From  earthly  films  set  free ; 
They  wait  with  us  for  old-time  cheer, 
And  greetings — wistful  drawing  near. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

This  a  charmed  circle.      Even  tears 

That  dim  our  earthly  sight 
Illumine  all  the  darkened  years, 

And  with  a  mellow  light 
Reflect  the  faces  that  we  knew, 
In  loving  form  and  feature,  true. 

To  these  we  drink.      Let  silence  reign  ! 

And,  beating  heart,  be  still! 
Whilst  we  the  up-turned  glasses  drain 

And  quickened  senses  thrill 
With  old-time  fellowship — a  sign 
That  friendship  pours  the  choicest  wine. 

To  those  grown  old,  the  mystery 

Of  life  renewed,  shall  show 
How  near  that  other  land  may  be 

To  which  they  soon  must  go; 
And  that  immortal  love  alone 
Makes  life  and  death,  and  all,  its  own. 

This  human  fellowship  we  know 

Is  like  a  radiant  star, 
That,  breaking  through  the  clouds,  can  show 

Lone  travelers  where  they  are. 
And  cheer  the  way,  else  drear  and  long, 
Relieved  by  many  bursts  of  song. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Better  than  all  the  creeds  of  Hate — 
Better  than  doubts  self-grown, 

Is  Faith,  that  walks  with  steps  elate 
Through  paths  and  ways  her  own ; 

All  leading  upward,  and  away 

From  clouds,  that  but  obscure  the  day. 

Reason  but  lags  when  Faith  starts  up, 
And  calls  with  cheery  tone; 

So  let  us  pass  the  brimming  cup, 
And  make  its  virtues  known. 

The  vintage  of  these  fifty  years 

Calls  not  for  thirsty  lips,  or  tears. 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  mortal  sense 
I  know  that  God  must  reign; 

And  in  His  hand  is  competence, 
All  creatures  to  sustain; 

And  in  this  faith — a  gift  not  small — 

We  own  Him,  crown  Him,  Lord  Df  all. 

And  if  at  times  Life's  pathway  seems 

Beset  on  every  hand, 
And  waking  oft  from  pleasant  dreams, 

We  tread  on  burning  sand, 
This  faith,  can  we  but  own  it  still, 
Shall  glorify  His  loving  will. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  13 

Pardon  the  Muse,  if  here  I  change  the  strain, 

And  in  plain  words  revive  old  scenes  again; 

These  many  years  but  give  an  added  zest 

To  student  life,  as  we,  with  smiles,  attest. 

Though  older  grown,  as  school-boys  for  a  day 

We  take  our  places;  or,  perchance,  we  play 

On  the  old  campus,  when  from  study  free — 

A  barren  place,  with  scarce  a  sheltering  tree 

Or  bit  of  grass,  on  which  outstretched  to  lie 

And  watch  the  games,  or  joke  the  passers-by; 

As  little  cared  for,  in  those  early  days, 

As  th'  street  urchins,  thriftless  parents  raise; 

And  yet  a  place  where  fun  and  frolic  kept 

High  carnival,  when  village  fathers  slept, 

And  teachers  dozed,  unmindful  of  things  done 

In  the  free  spirit  of  unlicensed  fun — 

Not  harmful  meant,  or  done  in  ruthless  spite, 

Or  done  to  mar  the  placid  rest  of  night; 

And  if  beyond  the  campus  grounds  we  strayed 

To  play  our  jokes,  or  sweetly  serenade 

Some  favored  girl — whatever  things  were  done, 

The  frolic  ended,  on  our  part,  as  fun: 

And  though  perchance  the  early  risers  saw 

Some  changes  made,  not  justified  by  law, 

I  feel  quite  sure,  few  village  folk  could  see 

In  these  rude  pranks,  hopeless  depravity; 

But  rather  liked,  by  morning  light,  to  see 

What  boys  could  do  when  from  restraint  set  free; 


I4  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

And  even  Study,  somehow,  seemed  to  feel 

New  impulse  stirred,  refreshment  gained,  and  zeal. 

Our  Latin  verbs,  the  lore  of  ancient  Greeks 

Came  easier  far  for  these  our  midnight  freaks — 

A  paradox  I  cannot  quite  explain, 

Except  as  play  relieved  the  student's  brain. 

Immortal  Lincoln,  with  great  care  opprest, 

Found  some  relief,  and  times  of  needful  rest 

By  story  telling,  and  a  joke  well  told 

May  change  debate,  and  list'ning  senates  hold; 

And  history  pens,  though  often  jeered,  reviled, 

"Rebellion  suffered  when  our  Lincoln  smiled." 


A  poet's  pen  is  like  a  ship  set  free 
On  ocean  billows — all  the  great  deep  sea 
On  which  to  sail,  of  every  wind  the  sport, 
Until  at  anchor  in  some  favored  port. 
When  I  cast  anchor,  if  on  friendly  shore, 
I  shall  feel  safe — and  hardly  safe  before ; 
But  if  I  drift  where'er  the  winds  may  blow, 
No  man  can  tell  where  my  poor  craft  may  go. 


Dear,  dear  old  Franklin!  a  most  favored  place, 
Where  winsome  Nature  shows  a  smiling  face; 
Its  cultured  valleys,  its  meandering  stream, 
The  Ouleout,  in  school-boy  days  a  dream 
Of  sylvan  beauty,  sheltered  here  and  there 
By  copse  or  woodland,  or  through  meadows  fair, 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  15 

Winding  and  turning,  mirroring  the  sky 
In  all  its  moods,  as  summer  days  went  by: 
And,  in  the  winter,  under  ice  and  snow, 
Singing  sweet  songs,  that  listeners  might  know 
Our  northern  streams,  unmindful  of  the  chill, 
Have  music  in  them  winter  could  not  still; 
That  hillside  springs,  in  their  perpetual  flow, 
Pay  constant  tribute  to  the  lands  below. 
Upon  its  banks  young  lovers  used  to  dream, 
And  talk  in  language  that  the  babbling  stream 
Could  well  repeat — so  soft,  and  sweet,  and  low — 
A  kind  of  bird-talk  lovers  only  know; 
And  when  repeated,  need  we  wonder  why, 
Or  whence  it  caught  its  tuneful  melody  ? 
Doubtless  to-day  the  same  old  song  is  heard, 
Still  thrills  the  maiden,  manhood's  heart  is  stirred 
By  the  same  music;    and  Love  still,  no  doubt, 
Makes  sweet  complaint  beside  the  Ouleout. 


This  the  song  of  long  ago, 

Heard  beside  the  rythmic  flow 

Of  glad  waters,  that  essay 

To  repeat  Love's  roundelay — 

Lovers'  moods  and  lovers'  wiles, 
Lovers'  words  and  lovers'  smiles 
Always  are  the  same,  and  show 
Hearts  with  tender  flames  aglow. 


16  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Wandering  here,  and  wandering  there — 

She,  the  fairest  of  the  fair; 

ffey  the  manliest,  and  true 

As  a  maiden  ever  knew; 

And  together  moving  slow 
In  the  evening's  afterglow — 
She,  so  happy;  he,  so  blest, 
Seemingly,  earth's  happiest. 

Boyhood's  love,  it  may  be  true, 
Girlhood's  passion,  naught  subdue; 
But,  when  brought  to  sober  test, 
They  love  long,  who  love  the  best; 
And  the  maiden,  and  the  boy 
Often  found  a  transient  joy, 
As  their  steps  wound  in  and  out, 
By  the  babbling  Ouleout. 

Men  have  found  in  years  mature, 
Boyhood's  love  not  hard  to  cure, 
And  young  maidens  have  been  known 
For  love's  follies  to  atone; 

Buds  and  blossoms  may  be  sweet — 
Nature  makes  such  things  complete- 
But  the  later  years  attest 
Ripened  fruit  is  always  best. 


In  the  old  days,  when  young  Demosthenes 
Talked  to  the  winds,  and  gestured  to  the  trees, 


S   I 


"As  their  s.teps  wound  in  and  out 
By  the  babbling  Ouleout." 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.       -  17 

Till  birds  affrighted  quite  forgot  to  sing, 

And  list'ning  herds  stood  silent,  wondering 

What  creature  strange,  in  haunts  their  own,  should  try 

To  trouble  Nature,  and  evoke  reply 

From  startled  Echoes,  Round  Top  fain  would  keep 

In  silent  slumber  and  perpetual  sleep; 

Lest,  once  disturbed,  the  Dryads  hence  should  fly, 

And  Round  Top  lose  their  woodland  melody — 

Then,  all  ambitious,  boys  would  try  at  times, 

Round  Top,  with  prose,  or  most  exciting  rhymes. 

From  its  bare  rocks,  our  learned  professors  drew 

Startling  conclusions — doubtless,  some  were  true — 

But  true  or  not,  we  liked  with  them  to  walk, 

And  listened  well  to  all  their  learned  talk; 

And  though  but  little  we  could  understand, 

These  walks  and  talks,  alike  to  us  were  grand. 

The  faithful  teachers  of  those  early  days, 
Who  can  forget  ?  For  them  we  fain  would  raise 
Memorial  stones,  inscribed  with  words  like  these: 
"  They  lived  for  others,  not  themselves  to  please." 
We  learned  to  love  them,  and  we  live  to  bless 
These  noble  men  for  all  their  faithfulness. 
Living,  though  dead,  in  other  lives  they  still 
Shape  human  purpose,  guiding  human  will. 
From  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west,  they  share 
In  human  progress,  still  are  having  care 
That  human  needs,  in  every  age,  should  find 


iS  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Brave  men  and  true,  to  virtue's  paths  inclined. 
God's  love  is  great;  through  Him  the  crucified 
They  entered  in,  beyond  the  veil,  and  know 
All  germs  of  truth,  if  planted  well,  must  grow; 
And  he  who  plants,  like  Abraham,  must  see, 
As  from  his  loins,  a  glad  posterity. 

Fitch,  few  remember.     Fifty  years  ago 

Our  "Prof."  was  he — one  I  was  proud  to  know, 

And  knowing,  loved  him,  and  to-day  would  bring 

Some  worthy  tribute — love's  best  offering. 

A  gentle  man,  a  noble  man,  a  friend 

You  well  could  trust,  and  trust  him  to  the  end. 

A  man  of  sense,  a  man  whose  life  was  free 

From  useless  cant,  and  narrow  bigotry. 

Modest,  he  made  no  very  great  pretense 

To  learning,  wit;  but  with  rare  eloquence 

He  graced  the  platform,  and  with  ready  speech 

Upbraided  wrong,  and  noblest  truths  could  teach: 

And  when  he  died,  our  lives  made  poorer  far, 

Knew  Heav'n  had  gained  another  shining  star. 

Professor  Kerr — loved  best,  as  better  known — 
A  moral  Ajax,  who  with  zeal  his  own, 
Enthused  all  hearts,  and  made  the  dullest  feel 
Some  of  his  spirit  and  unbounded  zeal. 
He  set  the  bounds  of  scholarship  so  high, 
Few  were  content  to  let  their  arrows  fly 


PROF.  FITCH. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  IQ. 

At  lower  objects — he  would  have  them  reach 
The  higher  gifts  of  earnest  thought  and  speech; 
And  no  man  lived  who  would  with  Kerr  compete 
In  making  Franklin,  Learning's  favorite  seat. 

Sometimes  called  rough;  but  those  who  near  him  stood 

Saw  only  strength,  with  every  impulse  good. 

In  fighting  evil,  he  would  neither  spare 

Himself  or  others — always  having  care 

To  keep  his  friends,  as  far  as  mortal  could, 

Along  the  lines  of  universal  good. 

To  fight  the  devil,  he,  like  Luther  knew 

When  he  approached,  and  any  missile  threw 

Within  his  reach,  an  inkstand  or  a  stone, 

And  never  faltered,  though  he  stood  alone. 

Such  men  are  rare — born  leaders  every  one, 

Though  often  jeered,  until  their  work  is  done; 

But  when  once  done,  their  very  foes  must  own 

They  have  done  well  and  rear  for  them  a  throne. 

To  men  like  Kerr  I  would  rare  homage  pay — 

A  kingly  man  in  his  peculiar  way, 

And  in  his  way  it  gave  his  friends  delight 

To  find  him  always  on  the  side  of  right. 

His  work  is  done;  with  reverent  hands  we  lay 

Our  humble  tribute  on  his  grave  to-day. 


These  later  years  to  me  are  overgrown 
With  many  cares;  but  I,  for  one,  must  own 


20  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

The  Old  has  claims  not  jostled  by  the  New 
Or  turned  aside,  if  to  my  boyhood  true. 
Though  gray-haired  now,  the  boys  of  long  ago 
Are  very  near — the  only  boys  I  know — 
And,  knowing  them,  it  is  enough  that  they, 
Living  or  dead,  live  in  our  thoughts  to-day. 


There's  Sam — you  must  remember  him — 

A  farmer's  boy,  and  able 
To  hold  his  own  and  something  more 

At  any  farmer's  table. 
Used  to  the  hardest  kind  of  toil, 

Labor  but  made  him  cheery, 
And  he  could  work  and  he  could  play, 

Scarce  feeling  worn  and  weary. 

His  sinews,  like  strong  cords,  were  made 

For  hardest  kind  of  duty; 
His  hands  were  rough  and  browned  with  tan 

With  scarce  a  line  of  beauty; 
Upon  his  face  a  beard  had  grown, 

Not  fine  as  silk,  but  showing 
He  was  a  robust,  healthy  lad, 

To  early  manhood  growing. 

His  form  was  clad  in  homespun  goods 

His  mother  made,  believing 
That  they  were  good  enough  for  boys 

Farm-bred,  for  school-life  leaving. 


PROF.   KERR. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

She  knew,  at  best,  they  would  not  tear 

Or  rip  from  careless  sewing; 
And  Sam,  she  knew,  was  very  strong, 

And  daily,  stronger  growing. 

Well,  Sam  came  down  to  school  one  day, 

Slight  comradeship  to  cheer  him; 
Was  sometimes  made  the  butt  of  jokes, 

Sometimes  boys  dared  to  jeer  him; 
Until,  at  last,  he  thought  it  best 

To  be  no  more  tormented; 
And,  though  he  rather  liked  a  joke, 

Some  jokes  were  best  resented ! 

And  so  he  made  himself  at  once 

A  very  useful  teacher, 
In  ways  not  hardly  orthodox — 

As  would  become  a  preacher; — 
So  brawny  muscle  had  its  day 

(He  well  knew  how  to  use  it) ; 
He  taught  the  boys  fair  play  was  best — 

They'd  better  not  abuse  it. 

Sam  held  his  own,  and  plodded  on, 
By  no  means  born  a  scholar, 

Careful,  as  farmer  boys  should  be, 
Of  every  hard-earned  dollar; 

Until  he  stood  in  college  halls, 
Healthy  and  strong  as  ever, 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

A  leader  in  all  college  plays, 
And  in  his  studies,  clever. 

From  college  into  life  he  went, 

A  man  equipped  and  growing 
Beyond  the  dreams  of  early  youth — 

Beyond  the  poet's  showing. 
Not  long  before  his  voice  was  heard 

In  Halls  of  State,  replying 
To  th'  great  masters  of  debate — 

With  honest  valor  trying 

To  do  the  duties  of  a  man, 

Honored  and  trusted,  knowing 
The  seeds  of  honest  labor  are 

The  only  seeds  worth  sowing. 
Sam  is  not  here.      "  He  rests,"  we  say 
"From  every  care  and  sorrow." 
When  shall  we  see  him  ?     Not  to-day; 
We  wait  for  some  to-morrow. 


Dan  from  a  neighboring  village  came, 
Wore  better  clothes  than  Sam — 

A  boy,  as  common  people  say, 

"  As  happy  as  a  clam  " — 

A  trite  expression,  hardly  fair, 
For  Dan  was  witty,  bright, 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  23 

And  entered  into  school-life  with 
The  most  supreme  delight. 

He  was  our  orator — his  tongue 

With  mellow  tones  was  blest; 
When  early  in  his  '  teens '  he  stood 

Among  our  very  best. 
He  was  a  politician  born, 

And  loved  a  square  debate; 
When  party  issues  had  been  made 

In  great  affairs  of  State. 

Dan  studied  law,  the  very  thing 

That  suited  him  the  best, 
Then  followed  Greeley's  sage  advice, 

And  settled  in  the  West. 
A  leader  at  the  bar  he  stood — 

If  living,  leader  still — 
For  with  his  gift  of  eloquence, 

He  had  a  leader's  will. 

Though  born  and  bred  a  Democrat, 

When  grim  Rebellion  rose, 
His  tongue  was  always  eloquent 

Against  his  country's  foes. 
And  with  the  true  men  of  the  West, 

With  patriotic  fire 
He  kindled  flames  that  burned  away 

Rebellion's  mean  desire. 


24  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Dan  was  a  lover  of  good  things, 

And  in  his  regal  way 
Could  grace  a  midnight  feast,  and  feel 

But  little  worse  next  day. 
Dear  Dan !  so  lovable  and  true — 

A  typical  "E.G." — 
I'd  like  to  take  him  by  the  hand, 

And  greet  him  loyally. 


There's  Jim!  I  knew  him  when  a  boy, 

An  artless  lad,  and  merry, 
A  healthy  brown  upon  his  face, 

And  red  as  any  cherry 
His  downy  cheeks,  on  which  a  smile 

Was  always  coming,  going, 
Like  ripples  on  a  placid  stream 

When  summer  winds  are  blowing. 

He  was,  all  over,  just  a  boy, 

His  boyish  nature  showing, 
And  always,  like  a  healthy  chap, 

Was  eating,  playing,  growing, 
And  learning  something  day  by  day 

From  birds  and  bees  and  flowers, 
And  testing,  as  a  young  boy  should, 

His  fast  increasing  powers. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  25 

You  knew  him  later  on,  at  school, 

Mischievous,  never  weary, 
And  with  his  comrades,  managing 

To  make  his  school-life  cheery; 
And  when  at  last  he  proudly  stood 

Among  the  best  in  college, 
Twas  evident,  no  laggard  he 

Upon  the  road  to  knowledge. 

From  college  into  life  he  went 

As  man  and  boy  together — 
His  manhood  just  the  sort  of  stuff 

To  heed  no  stress  of  weather — 
His  boyhood,  just  as  full  of  fun, 

And  jest,  and  song,  as  ever; 
In  fact  the  very  sort  of  man 

The  world  calls  bright  and  clever. 

The  first  I  knew,  he  had  a  place, 

And  wealth  and  fame  was  winning, 
Though  careful  that  his  life  should  rest 

On  Virtue's  underpinning, 
At  last  he  stood  as  strong  and  firm 

As  oaks  in  pastures  growing, 
Regardless  that  the  tide  of  life 

In  other  ways  was  flowing. 

Though  prest  with  business  cares,  he  drew 
A  line  for  every  duty, 


26  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

And  held  a  sacred  place  apart 
For  nature,  love  and  beauty; 

And  in  the  quiet  of  his  home, 
Few  cares  his  life  distressing — 

He  found,  what  man  should  always  find, 
Life  here,  life's  greatest  blessing. 

That's  Jim,  as  I  remember  him — 

He's  older  now,  still  growing 
In  quiet  manliness  and  grace, 

His  early  training  showing. 
His  three-score  years  and  ten  have  left 

Slight  trace  of  care  or  sorrow, 
And  still  he  hopes,  from  Father  Time, 

Some  happy  years  to  borrow. 

"A  grand  old  man!"     ''That's  Jim,"  you  say — 

I  own  I  mean  no  other, 
For  he  would  be  to  every  man 

A  true  friend  and  a  brother. 
Sometime  the  Lord  will  say  to  Jim, 
"Come  up  a  little  higher!  " 
And  Jim  will  answer,  "Lord!  I  hear, 

Fulfill  Thine  own  desire." 

Scores  of  our  boys,  we  call  to  mind  to-day, 
Like  Sam  and  Dan  and  Jim — our  boys  were  they: 
And  proud  are  we  these  later  years  have  shown 
What  boys  can  do,  to  useful  manhood  grown, 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  27 

Started  in  life,  with  culture  and  good  sense, 
And  lofty  aims — young  manhood's  best  defense. 


In  those  dark  days,  when  clouds  of  sulphurous  hue 

O'erspread  the  land,  and  Freedom  scarcely  knew 

What  men  to  trust — on  whom  she  could  rely 

For  faithful  service ,  and  if  needs  be  die — 

Then,  then  it  was,  our  boys  no  duty  knew 

That  was  not  loyal  and  to  Freedom  true. 

How  many  went,  let  the  old  records  tell, 

And  went  unflinching  to  that  awful  hell 

Of  battle  carnage,  where  the  earth,  made  red 

With  human  blood,  and  all  o'er  canopied 

With  battle  smoke  through  which  ran  tongues  of  flame 

Like  evil  spirits,  none  but  God  could  tame; 

And  whizzing  balls  and  shrieking  bombs  let  fly, 

Left  shattered  victims,  in  such  agony, 

That  Death  itself  seemed  pitiful  and  blest 

In  giving  these,  the  maimed  and  dying,  rest. 

Mid  scenes  like  these,  our  boys  stood  staunch  and  true — 

Heroes  as  brave  as  Freedom  ever  knew. 

What  tribute  pay  ?     Language  has  found  no  tongue 
Their  deeds  to  tell — no  poet  yet  has  sung 
Their  fitting  praise;  and  history  has  no  pen 
That  can  record  what  Freedom  owes  to  men 
Made  of  such  stuff,  that  Abraham  Lincoln  knew, 
However  tried  they  would  be  loyal,  true. 


28  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

Through  all  our  lives  we  have  been  proud  to  own 
The  sway  of  woman,  set  her  on  a  throne 
Of  rare  dominion — queen  by  right  divine, 
Ruling  all  hearts,  and  by  the  gracious  sign 
Of  love  made  known,  has  made  of  home  a  place 
Where  Virtue  reigns  with  most  benignant  grace; 
And  where  the  man,  within  her  influence  thrown, 
Has  been  compelled  her  gracious  sway  to  own. 
The  Franklin  girls,  we  always  understood, 
Were  worth  the  winning — beautiful  as  good ; 
In  manners  graceful,  graceful  in  their  speech, 
And  not  too  proud  to  be  beyond  the  reach 
Of  worthy  boys  who  had  an  eye  to  see 
A  bright-eyed  girl,  both  lovable  and  free; 
And,  having  seen  her,  ere  school-life  was  done, 
A  future  wife  was  very  often  won ; 
And,  having  won  her,  everybody  knew 
She  would  be  loyal  and  forever  true. 

Such  were  the  girls  we  used  to  know,  complete 
In  grace  and  beauty — than  a  rose  more  sweet. 
To  learn  to  love  them  was  an  easy  thing 
As  for  the  birds,  at  early  morn,  to  sing; 
And  love,  you  know,  is  never  fully  blest 
Until  it  finds  in  all  the  world  the  best. 

I  see  them  now  just  as  they  used  to  be. 
From  later  follies  and  ambitions  free, 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  29 

Content  with  life  and  those  constraints  that  bind 
To  true  devotion,  when  to  love  inclined; 
And  when  inclined,  her  life  and  all  were  laid 
Upon  the  altar  love  itself  had  made. 
Somehow,  to  me,  the  modern  girl,  though  fair, 
With  old-time  girls  one  hardly  could  compare; 
Their  glow  of  health,  their  earnest,  winning  ways 
Are  quite  uncommon  in  these  latter  days. 
Could  you  but  see  them  as  we  used  to  see, 
With  us,  no  doubt,  all  doubters  would  agree. 
Recall  the  girl  you  deemed  the  brightest,  best, 
The  many  charms  that  she  for  you  possest; 
Her  coal-black  eyes,  aglow  with  living  flame — 
Love's  lightning  flashing,  only  love  could  tame; 
Her  shining  tresses,  black  as  raven's  wing. 
And  soft  as  silk,  rich  merchants  sometimes  bring 
From  the  far  East,  her  glowing  cheeks  a  sign 
That  they  were  made  for  joys  almost  divine; 
Matched  with  a  form  so  rounded  and  so  free, 
You  could  but  own  her  native  majesty; 
In  fact  a  queen,  with  queenly  graces  rare, 
Among  Earth's  daughters  fairest  of  the  fair; 
Or,  if  blue-eyed,  not  long  before  you  knew 
The  rarest  light  shone  in  those  eyes  of  blue. 
How  deep  they  were,  I'm  sure  you  could  not  tell, 
But  deep  enough  to  be  a  miracle 
Of  depth  and  sweetness,  and  a  single  look 
Changed  your  whole  being,  and  you  undertook 


30  ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

To  solve  a  riddle  wiser  men  have  tried 

In  vain  to  solve,  with  love  unsatisfied. 

Enough  to  own,  henceforth  you  daily  drew 

New  thoughts  and  fancies  from  those  depths  of  blue. 

Henceforth  a  change !  and  you  would  dream  away 

In  sense  of  bliss  the  duties  of  the  day, 

Careless  of  books — careful  no  other  boy 

Should  understand,  and  new-found  bliss  annoy. 

If  not  your  fix,  some  other  boys  I  knew 
Half  mad  at  times,  so  fierce  the  passion  grew. 
They  all  lived  through  it,  and  if  here  could  tell 
Some  pretty  tales  of  what  to  them  befell — 
Like  those  you  find  in  books  and  magazines, 
Oft  read  by  young  folks  well  on  in  their  'teens. 

What  memories  these !     You  call  them  thin  as  air, 
Bubbles  perhaps;  but  rainbow  tints  are  there. 
These  color  life — perchance,  have  power  to  show 
How,  from  mere  trifles,  great  results  may  grow, 
The  loves  of  boyhood,  made  a  Burns  to  sing, 
Inspired  an  Irving,  making  him  a  king 
In  realms  historic;  and  for  aught  I  know, 
Have  made  your  feet  in  better  ways  to  go. 

Like  well  trained  coursers,  swift  the  moments  fly; 
We  meet  and  part — comes  soon  the  long  "  Good  Bye. 
.Our  fifty  years  have  passed,  and  now  we  wait 
What  shall  come  after;  and  when,  soon  or  late, 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  31 

The  call  is  heard  to  summon  us  away, 

However  prest,  that  call  we  must  obey. 

No  great  ambitions  unfulfilled,  can  keep 

Our  feet  from  rest,  our  eyes  from  lasting  sleep. 

When  that  time  comes,  Lord !  give  us  faith  to  see 

Our  very  longings  centered  safe  in  Thee. 

To  other  lives  the  future  shall  unfold 

What  prophets  dream  of — what  as  creed  we  hold 

Shall  all  be  tested;  all  that's  false  shall  die, 

And  what  is  true,  our  future  needs  supply. 

Here  rest  content.     God  reigns,  His  will  alone 

Can  guide  us  safely  through  all  seas  unknown. 

The  trusting  soul  alone  has  power  to  stand 

Amid  life's  wreckage,  heeding  God's  command, 

To  lighten  ship  of  useless  things,  that  make 

The  voyage  doubtful.     Friends!  fresh  courage  take; 

All  seas  are  safe,  obedient  to  His  will; 

And  in  this  faith,  O  doubting  heart,  be  still ! 


OTHER   POEMS. 


PROEM. 

This  flow  of  rhyme,  is  but  a  quiet  stream 
Babbling  away — of  country  life  a  dream; 
Unheard  its  music,  save  as  willing  ears 
Listen  at  times  through  intervening  years. 

With  few  rewards,  it  only  seeks  to  flow 
Through  rural  scenes,  well  pleased,  if  it  may  know 
That  country  homes  accept  the  proffered  cJieer, 
And  lisfning  wait,  familiar  strains  to  hear. 

The  hill-side  brooks  have  little  part  to  play 
With  sweeping  tides,  that  bear  great  ships  away; 
But  pasture  lands,  and  meadows  low,  between, 
Mark  well  their  course  'by  shades  of  living  green^ 

Men  all  engrossed,  but  little  heed  can  pay, 
To  rural  scenes,  where  nature,  as  in  play, 

Gathers  the  springs,  and  bids  their  waters  flow^ 
In  ceaseless  rhyme,  to  thirsty  lands  below. 

Content  I  wait — not  for  applause,  or  fame — 
/  would  not  tempt  the  scorching  heat  of  flame 
Fed  by  ambition;  rather  far,  I  press 
The  humbler  ways  of  quiet  happiness. 

Not  quite  alone  :  the  friends  I  love  are  dear, 
And  in  their  presence,  find  I  greatest  cheer; 
Grant  these  to  me,  and  with  them  let  me  go, 
Singing  the  songs  I  could  not  help  but  know. 
35 


1 


'  Children  of  the  wood  are  these 
Singing  underneath  the  trees." 


THE  HUDSON. 


I  sing  the  Hudson,  fairest  stream  that  flows 

From  northern  highlands,  fed  by  winter  snows, 

And  summer  showers,  and  clear  cool  springs,  that  wade 

Knee-deep  in  ferns,  beneath  the  constant  shade 

Of  grand  old  forests — each  and  all  intent 

To  add  some  charm  to  wildwood  merriment; 

Or,  wandering  wild  'mong  rocks,  moss-grown,  and  grey, 

Well  pleased  at  last  to  somewhere  find  their  way. 

Children  of  the  wood  are  these, 

Singing  underneath  the  trees, 

Babbling  to  the  timid  deer, 

That  to  quench  their  thirst  draw  near — 

List'ning  to  the  wild-bird's  song, 

As  they  slowly  glide  along — 

Whirling,  in  a  dizzy  round 

Where  the  speckled  trout  are  found; 

Or,  in  wanton,  careless  play 

Tossing  up  the  dewy  spray, 

Glad  to  see,  that  more  than  fair 

Rainbow  tints  and  colors  are; 
These,  gathered  all,  flow  southward  in  a  tide 
Of  matchless  beauty,  well  a  Nation's  pride — 
The  mighty  Hudson,  all  its  waters  free 
To  find,  unvexed,  a  pathway  to  the  sea. 
37 


38  THE  HUDSON. 

II 

Through  valleys  fair,  by  verdant  hills  it  flows 
Seaward  forever,  seeking  no  repose. 
It  hears  the  sound  of  many  flocks  and  herds, 
The  hum  of  cities,  melody  of  birds, 
The  village  stir,  the  plough-boy's  song,  the  sigh 
Of  winter  winds,  and  summer's  melody; 
It  greets  the  hills,  and  looks  with  loving  eyes 
On  mountain  peaks  that  pierce  the  very  skies. 

Hear  the  Hudson,  murmuring  low, 

Crooning  to  itself — "I  know 

Men  have  ways  their  own,  but  I 

Question  never  Wherefore  ?  Why  ? 

Hills  are  more  than  men  to  me, 

And  the  mountains  that  I  see, 

In  eternal  grandeur  rise — 

Always,  pleasing  mysteries. 

Nature  kindly  is,  and  true ; 

Morning  decks  the  earth  anew, 

And  the  day's  declining  light 

Fills  me,  thrills  me  with  delight." 
Thus  croons  the  Hudson  to  itself,  nor  cares 
For  Trade's  demands.     It  uncomplaining  bears 
What  burthens  Commerce,  world-wide  commerce  brings — 
The  spoil  of  empires,  and  the  wealth  of  kings. 

Ill 

Among  the  Highlands,  prest  on  either  shore, 
It  murmurs  not,  nor  with  tempestuous  roar 


C   sf 

n>    eT 


THE  HUDSON.  39 

Hurls  back  defiance.     Secretly  it  hides 

In  deepest  caverns  its  else  angry  tides; 

Kisses  the  feet  of  Storm  King,  not  oppressed 

To  find  his  image  mirrored  on  its  breast; 

Salutes  with  grace  the  soldier-boys,  who  keep 

Due  watch  and  guard  o'er  West  Point's  rocky  steep. 

Winding,  turning  here  and  there, 
New  enchantments  everywhere, 
Islands,  shores,  and  hamlets  old, 
Rich  in  legends  often  told; 
By  that  home  at  Sunnyside, 
Where  '  our  Irving  '  lived  and  died, 
Glides  the  Hudson.      "  Him  I  knew 
As  a  lover,  leal  and  true — 
Knew  him,  as  true  men  are  known, 
By  the  kindly  spirit  shown; 
And  I  sometimes  think  I  see 
Irving,  as  he  used  to  be, 
Standing,  in  the  twilight  grey 
Musing,  in  the  old-time  way." 

True  to  the  Hudson,  on  its  banks  he  chose 
His  life-long  home;  and  there  in  charming  prose 
He  wrote  its  legends,  well  the  scholar's  pride; 
And  all  men  mourned,  when  gentle  Irving  died. 

IV 

As  comes  a  conqueror  in  the  pride  of  state 
From  victories  won,  with  trophies  rich  and  great, 


40  THE  HUDSON. 

So  comes  the  Hudson,  bearing  proudly  down 
The  spoil  of  forests,  harvest  fields,  and  town— 
A  wealth  untold,  a  joy,  a  glad  surprise, 
A  boon  for  earth,  a  mirror  for  the  skies; 
Nears  the  Great  City,  one  broad  sweeping  tide, 
Where  navies  rest,  and  fleets  triumphant  ride. 
Hear  the  Hudson!     "This  1  know, 
Thrives  the  state  and  cities  grow 
Through  the  blessings  that  I  bring, 
Servant  of  earth's  Lord  and  King. 
He  alone  is  wise  and  good — 
Praise  Him!  as  all  people  should. 
Men  may  change,  but  He  is  true — 
His  are  blessings  ever  new. 
Morning,  noon,  and  night,  I  bring 
To  your  doors  His  offering. 
Life  is  short,  achievement  slow, 
Ocean  calls,  and  I  must  go." 
So  sang  the  Hudson;  and  I  saw  at  sea, 
The  glad  waves  dancing,  in  the  sunlight  free — 
The  Ocean's  welcome.     Well  for  all,  at  last, 
Who  find  a  haven,  when  Life's  toils  are  past. 


I  •- 


THE  TOLL-GATHERER. 

A  long  and  weary  road  I  trod, 

One  sultry  summer's  day, 
With  scarce  an  intervening  shade 
To  tempt  the  traveler's  stay; 

Or  cooling  spring,  or  sylvan  lake, 
From  which  my  burning  thirst  to  slake. 

High  overhead,  an  August  sun 

Looked  down  with  steadfast  gaze; 
And,  like  the  points  of  heated  spears, 
Pierced  through  and  through  his  rays — 
No  coat  of  mail,  or  shield  of  hide, 
Could  shelter  from  the  burning  tide. 

The  fields  with  trembling  ardor  glowed; 

As  in  Love's  first  excess, 
The  doubting  victim  scarcely  knows 
If  love,  indeed,  doth  bless — 

Then  turns  with  yielding  look,  aside, 
And  bears,  as  best,  the  fevered  tide. 

The  robust  maize  that  greets  the  sun, 

And  with  a  lover's  eye 
Looks  up  to  catch  his  brightest  beams, 
When  noon-tide  crowns  the  sky, 

Now  dropt  its  slender  arms,  and  stood, 
Like  one  in  her  first  widowhood. 


42  THE  TOLL-GATHERER. 

Those  fairest  "Children  of  the  Sun  "- 

The  bright-eyed  summer  flow'rs, 
That  drink  the  morning's  sweetness  up 
To  woo  the  twilight  hours, 

Hung  down  their  heads,  in  field  and  grove, 
Abashed  by  Sol's  untempered  love. 

With  drooping  wing  and  panting  breast, 

The  "merry-throated"  wren 
Had  gone  to  sing  love's  lullaby 
In  cool  and  shady  glen; 

And  in  the  forest's  deep  embrace, 
Each  songster  sought  some  shady  place. 

The  lowing  herds,  the  bleating  flocks, 

With  Nature's  untaught  grace, 
Seemed,  in  their  quiet  way,   to  thank 
God  for  a  shady  place. 

Or,  standing  in  some  dark  pool's  brim. 
Drank,  off'ring  up  their  praise  to  Him. 

With  fever'd  brow  and  parching  lip, 

Amid  the  burning  sand, 
I  urged  my  good  steed  on,  and  saw 
A  dwelling  near  at  hand, 

With  covered  gateway,  and  ajar, 
Swung  to  and  fro  the  toll-man's  bar. 

And  as  I  dropt  the  yielding  rein 
Beneath  its  tempting  shade, 


THE  TOLL-GATHERER.  43 

There  came  for  toll,   instead  of  age, 
A  young  and  artless  maid — 

An  artless  maiden,   in  whose  eye 
I  caught  the  depth  and  hue  of  sky. 

''Your  toll,   sir!"  and  I  answered  not — 

Nor  token  gave  or  sign — 
Rare  beauty  in  my  dreams  I'd  seen 
And  christened  it  divine; 

But  dream  ne'er  limned  on  empty  air, 
A  face  so  sweet,  a  form  so  fair. 

"O  Beauty!  sorceress  art  thou," 

Fell  from  my  parted  lips — 
"The  wild  bee  leaves  unharmed  the  flow'r 
And  still  some  sweetness  sips; 
But  thou,   from  ev'ry  passing  soul 
Dost  ask,  as  tribute,   double  toll!" 

"Your  words  are  riddles,  sir!  that  I 

But  little  comprehend — 
I  simply  asked  for  toll — nor  deem 
I'm  other  than  your  friend. 

God  led  my  footsteps  here,  and  I 
Have  little  right  to  question  why." 

"  Or  need  you  question — pardon  grant — 

I  was  in  dreaming  mood — 
God  placed  you  here — 'tis  well  to  own 

That  He  to  all  is  good; 


THE  TOLL-GATHERER. 

And  He  in  largeness  grants  to  me — 
Where  beauty  is — the  gift  to  see." 

"But,   maiden!  I  am  travel-worn; 

For  since  the  dawn  of  day, 
Long,   weary  miles  I've  rode,  and  now 
For  rest  I  humbly  pray; 

And   then,  when   evening's  shadows  fall, 
For  toll  and  rest,   I'll  pay  thee  all." 

"  Tis  well,"  she  answered,   "and  my  lips 

No  false  words  dare  to  tell — 

Come  in,  and  I  your  glass  will  fill 

With  water,  from  the  well — 

Will  share  with  you  our  little  store 

Of   simple  food,  and  wish  'twere  more." 

Refreshed  with  rest,   I  watched  the  throng 

Of  weary  passers-by, 

And  all,  from  youth  to  age,   seemed   pleased 
When  she  for  toll  drew  nigh; 

And  I,  by  word  or  look,  could  tell, 
No  heart  was  free  from  Beauty's  spell. 

The  old  man,   resting  on  his  staff, 

Forgot  to  count  his  dimes, 
And  dreaming  Youth,  as  on  he  passed, 
Sang  snatches  of  old  rhymes; 

And  haggard  Want  and  furrowed  Care 
Looked  up,  and  caught  a  sunbeam  there. 


THE  TOLL-GATHERER.  45 

And  little  did  the  maiden  dream 

That  all  the  passing  throng, 
From  her  blest  presence  drew  relief, 
And  felt  each  nerve  grow  strong — 
And  that  no  priest  at  holy  shrine — 
Like  Beauty's  self — has  power  divine. 

But  soon  the  evening  shadows  fell 

Athwart  the  dusty  plain; 
And  I,   in  heart  and  limb  refreshed, 
Resumed  my  steps  again — 

Thrice  thankful  to  the  God  above 
That  earth  has  beauty,  youth  and  love. 

And  thus  I  mused :    Life  is  indeed 

To  some  a  summer's  day, 
Where  Passion,   fiercest  sun  that  burns — 
If  with  untempered  ray — 

Drives  from  the  heart  all  bursts  of  song, 
And  makes  the  Pilgrim's  journey  long. 

The  flow'rs  stand  drooping  in  his  path, 

He  treads  on  burning  sand; 
And  blasted  hopes,  like  arid  plains 
Stretch  out  on  either  hand. 

No  tempting  shade,  or  bubbling  spring, 
Their  wonted  wealth  of  freshness  bring. 

Thrice  happy  he  whose  footsteps  lead 
Where  artless  Beauty  stands, 


46 


THE  TOLL-GATHERER. 


Demanding  toll,   with  silvery  voice, 
And  wide  extended  hands; 

And  happier  he — with  'raptured  gaze. 
Who  turns,   and  willing  tribute  pays. 


LINES, 

Suggested  by  a  Lady,  Reading. 

Did  you  hear  the  words  that  came 

From  those  dainty  lips,  aflame 
With  the  passion  and  the  thrill 
Of  the  Poet's  matchless  skill  ? 

Did  you  note  that  living  words, 

Like  the  melody  of  birds 

Rose  and  fell,  as  borne  on  wings 
Far  away  from  meaner  things  ? 

What  the  witchery  and  the  spell  ? 

Who  is  wise  enough  to  tell  ? 

Rosy  lips  are  often  tame — 
Rarely  tipped  with  bursts  of  flame, 
That,  with  heat  their  own  can  reach, 
Far  beyond  the  gift  of  speech. 
What  the  power,  almost  divine, 
That  can  make  the  poet's  line, 
Like  a  living  creature,  bear 
Soul  and  sense  to  higher  air  ? 
This  the  riddle.     Red  lips  tell 
Whence  this  seeming  miracle  ? 

Burns  himself  comes  back  and  sings 
Dainty  love  songs — whisperings 


LINES. 

Of  that  passion,  he  alone 

Could  to  other  hearts  make  known: 
And  that  peer  of  English  song, 
Tennyson,  the  great,  the  strong, 

How  the  music  of  his  lyre, 

Thrills  the  soul  with  new  desire ! 
This,   no  pleasant  dream  of  mine, 
Gift  of  speech  is  gift  divine. 

Dainty  lips!  so  red  and  sweet, 
O'er  and  o'er  old  rhymes  repeat. 
Ah !  the  poet,  he  can  tell, 
Whence  this  seeming  miracle. 
As  the  perfume  of  the  rose 
Does  its  inmost  life  disclose, 
So  do  sweetest  lips  express 
More  than  outward  loveliness — 
'Tis  the  soul  within  that  stirs, 
Making  all  men  worshippers. 


THANK  GOD  FOR  TREES! 

Thrice  happy  they  who  walk  attent,  and  know 
God's  hand  is  seen  in  all  good  things  that  grow; 

Nor  least  of  these 

Are  the  deep-rooted,  long-lived,  blessed  trees. 
Rank  upon  rank,  in  countless  hosts  they  stand, 
The  living  guardians  of  a  grateful  land. 

Thank  God  for  trees ! 

Through  all  the  year,  some  ministry  they  bring 
To  birds  that  fly,  and  every  creeping  thing; 

And  man,  earth's  lord, 

Before  the  trees  should  bow  in  sweet  accord. 
In  "  God's  first  temples  "  walk  with  reverent  care. 
All  sights,  all  sounds  invite  the  soul  to  prayer. 

Thank  God  for  trees! 

When  spring-time  comes,  it  is  a  joy  to  see 
New  life,  new  hope,  in  every  living  tree — 

The  life  that  thrills 

Shows  everywhere  among  the  wooded  hills; 
And  everywhere,  among  the  budding  trees, 
Life  daily  shows  some  pleasing  mysteries. 

Thank  God  for  trees! 

In  summer  days  how  grateful  is  the  shade 
Of  thick-leaved  trees  in  tangled  forest  glade; 
49 


50  THANK  GOD  FOR  TREES. 

And  growing  free 

In  field  or  lane,  what  beauty  in  a  tree! 
And  through  the  valleys,  what  a  joy  to  trace 
These  summer  trees  all  robed  in  matchless  grace  ! 

Thank  God  for  trees! 

When  autumn  comes — Ah!  then  it  is  one  sees 
The  matchless  glory  of  earth's  myriad  trees — 

They  burn,  they  glow 

With  every  color  earth  or  heaven  may  know; 
And  with  their  fruits,  in  ever-plenteous  store, 
They  fill  our  baskets  till  we  want  no  more. 

Thank  God  for  trees! 

In  wintry  days,  when  the  cold  winds  come  down, 
And  wander  wild  thro'  grove  and  field  and  town, 

Then — listening — 

What  anthems  wild  the  trees  exultant  sing! 
Now  high,  now  low — as  minstrels  old  they  stand, 
And  fill  with  music  all  the  frozen  land. 

Thank  God  for  trees! 

Not  vain,  not  vain  is  homage  paid  to  trees — 
God  fashioned  them,  not  rudest  sense  to  please; 

But  made  them  all 

For  wisest  purpose,  either  great  or  small. 
On  all  the  hills,  in  all  the  valleys  low, 
The  glad  earth  welcomes  all  the  trees  that  grow. 

Thank  God  for  trees! 


THANK  GOD  FOR  TREES. 

Poet  and  Painter — lo !  among  the  trees 

They  walk  elate;  books  have  no  charms  like  these. 

With  earnest  eyes, 

To  them  all  nature  is  a  glad  surprise. 
Poems  and  pictures,  as  the  light  and  air, 
Among  the  trees  are  present  everywhere. 

Thank  God  for  trees! 


THE   FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  sing  the  Farmer's  Daughter — born 

To  make  the  farm  life  cheery, 
Who,  singing  at  her  task  at  morn, 

At  even-tide,  not  weary, 
Has  still  a  song,  and  still  a  smile, 

For  every  living  creature, 
And  lips  that  speak  no  word  of  guile, 

And  face,  and  form,  and  feature 
So  full  of  life  and  health,  the  farm 
In  her,  sees  Nature's  sweetest  charm. 

In  ways,  her  own,  she  lives  to  learn, 

Some  useful  lesson  daily, 
And  from  life's  round  of  care  can  turn, 

To  question  wisely,  gaily, 
All  things  that  grow — the  earth,  the  sky, 

And  fruits,  and  flowers,  in  season, 
And  always  getting  some  reply, 

That  satisfies  her  reason; 

And  satisfied,  she  comes  to  know 
All  useful  things,  the  earth  can  grow. 

The  birds  about  her,  come  and  go, 

In  careless,  wanton  pleasure, 
And  sing  the  sweetest  songs  they  know, 

To  charm  her  hours  of  leisure. 

52 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.  53 

The  story  of  their  life,  she  knows, 

Their  love  songs,  sweetly  breaking 
The  charm  of  sleep,  when  Morning  shows 
That  Night,  her  leave  is  taking; 

And  wide  awake,  she  greets  the  day, 
And  turns  from  rest,  with  joy  away. 

In  city  streets,  she  little  hears 

But  sounds,  that  startle,  weary; 
And  city  life,  to  her  appears 

As  something  restless,  dreary, 
And  city  ways,  seem  lacking  all 

In  hearty  tones  of  feeling, 
And  city  woes,  her  heart  appall, 

And  Want  to  Greed  appealing 
Shows  life  to  her,  so  little  known, 
She  gladly  turns  to  seek  her  own. 

Where  others  faint,  she  wearies  not 

In  any  round    of  duty; 
And  home  for  her,  is  one  dear  spot 

That  daily  grows  in  beauty. 
Beneath  her  hand,  all  flowers  bloom, 

And  fruits,  full  ripe,  or  growing — 
For  these  she  finds  abundant  room, 

And  proud  she  is,  of  showing 

These  blessings  of  the  earth,  sent  down 
By  God  himself,  his  life  to  crown. 


54  THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER. 

Dear  Girl !.    The  world  has  many  ways, 

That  end  alike  in  sorrow, 
And  idle  hands  find  tedious  days, 

That  know  no  bright  to-morrow. 
For  you,  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

To  every  sense  appealing — 
For  you,  the  buds  to  blossoms  grow, 

And  these  their  fruits  revealing, 

In  time  will  show,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  Nature's  law,  and  life  obey. 


LINES. 

Suggested  by  a  visit  to  Mt.  Wilson  May  i  ith,  1893. 

These  mountain  peaks  lift  their  bold  heads  on  high, 

Play  with  the  clouds,  and  tempest  winds  defy; 

Though  scarred  and  seamed,   like  vet'rans  old  they  stand 

As  bold  protectors  of  a  favored  land. 

Proud  and  majestic,  on  the  plains  below, 

They  look  well  pleased,  content  that  man  must  know 

He  has  his  limits — that  for  him  the  sun 

Warms  pleasant  valleys;  and  when  day  is  done 

Bids  him  to  rest,  secure  and  not  afraid 

Of  quiet  Nature,  in  sweet  garb  arrayed; 

But  on  these  mountains,  poised  in  realms  of  air, 

Man  learns  his  weakness,  voiced  in  words  of  prayer — 

Here,  granite  rocks,  unstable  seem,  piled  high 

Against  the  blue  of  earth's  o'er-arching  sky. 

When  bolder  grown,  he  scales  these  mountain  sides 
Where  rugged  Nature  in  rude  state  abides, 
And  beetling  cliffs,  like  crippled  giants,  lean 
On  the  thin  air;  and  depths  below  are  seen 
Abyssmal,  dark,  from  whence  no  sound  or  sign, 
Save  the  low  breathings  of  the  mountain  pine — 
However  bold,  man  shrinks  appalled  away, 
And  startled  sense  begins  at  once  to  pray 
55 


56  LINES. 

For  surer  foothold — getting  no  reply 

From  the  great  crags  that  topple  in  the  sky; 

Here  man  finds  God  supreme,  His  power  displayed 

In  the  great  mountains  His  own  hands  have  made. 

Only  the  eagle  on  these  cliffs  can  rest 

And  feel  secure,  and  build  unawed  its  nest. 


OUR  RIVER, 

The  Susquehannah. 

All  the  rivers  seek  the  sea 
Rippling,  flowing  gracefully, 

Making  music  as  they  run — 

Blessing  bearers,  every  one. 
In  the  Susquehannah, lo ! 
All  the  purest  waters  flow, 

Kept  from  harm  by  cooling  shade, 

Forests  grand,  and  old  have  made. 

From  the  land  where  Cooper's  pen 
Famous  made  untutored  men — 

From  Otsego's  hills,  that  stir 

Heart  of  Nature's  worshipper — 
From  a  lake  whose  depths  serene 
Are  walled  in  with  living  green, 

Runs  our  river  to  the  sea, 

Healthful,  hopeful,  joyfully. 

Through  the  meadows,  lying  low, 
Where  the  sweetest  grasses  grow — 
Through  the  woodland's  denser  shade, 
By  the  willows'  tangled  glade 
Flows  our  river — when  it  wills 
Turning  wheels  for  busy  mills; 
57 


58  OUR  RIVER. 

Night  and  day,  with  constant  care 
Scattering  blessings  everywhere. 

By  the  farmer's  door  it  glides 
In  and  out  with  ceaseless  tides; 

To  our  village  homes  it  brings 

All  the  wealth  of  brooks  and  springs 
That  a  thousand  hills  have  sent 
Valley  ward,  in  merriment: 

In  the  Susquehannah,  see! 

Type  of  what  our  lives  should  be. 

On  its  banks  the  artist  sees 
Nature's  pleasing  mysteries; 

And  the  poet  tarries  long, 

Waiting,  but  to  catch  the  song 
That  its  cheery  waters  sing 
To  all  creatures  listening. 

Ah !  the  poet  knows  full  well 

It  is  Nature's  miracle. 


YOSEMITE. 

An  Impromptu  written  in  the  Valley  June  zd,   1893. 

God  made  the  world,  and  resting  from  His  toil 

He  looked  on  all,  as  with  approving  eye; 

Then  questioned  He,  what  form  the  heavens  should  take 

(As  yet  the  sky  was  formless  all,  and  void) 

And  on  these  cliffs,  majestic,  broad  and  high, 

Saw  ample  place  to  plan  the  lofty  sky. 

What  plans  He  tried,  these  cliffs  forever  show, 

Sketched  bold  and  free,  as  He,  all-wise,  did  plan, 

And  done  by  hands  obedient  to  His  will. 

Arches  are  here,  and  tow'rs,  and  mystic  signs 

No  man  can  read,  however  learned  and  wise. 

Well  pleased,  God  saw,  what  His  own  hands  had  made — 

The  giant  dome  that  crowns  Yosemite, 

And  poised  high  up,  in  realms  of  upper  air, 

In  form  complete  and  grand  beyond  compare; 

And  seeing  said,  "  A  dome  shall  arch  the  sky, 

And  on  these  cliffs  that  vaulted  dome  shall  rest 

Upheld  secure,  whilst  time  itself  shall  last;  " 

And  to  this  day,  as  seen  by  human  eye, 

They  bear  aloft  the  blue  dome  of  the  sky. 


59 


THE  OCEAN. 

Written  on  the  Beach,  at  Santa  Barbara,  May  3d,   189-,. 

I  place  my  hand  upon  the  ocean's  pulse, 
And  feel  the  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart; 
And  play  with  it,  as  children  play  with  brooks — 
Careless  and  wanton,  all;  and  yet  that  tide 
Encircles  earth  in  its  diurnal  flow, 
Bears  on  its  bosom  mountains  tall  and  cold 
Of  glittering  ice,  toys  with  great  ships,  and  dares 
Earth's  granite  cliffs,  as  which  shall  master  be — 
A  task  the  gods  would  hardly  dare  enrage ;  then  turns 
And  plays  with  sands,  and  ocean  weeds,  and  shells, 
And  babbles  gently,  as  a  lover  should, 
Seeking  to  woo  a  modest,  blushing  maid. 
At  times  like  these  man  little  has  to  fear, 
Yea,  shrinks  not  from  its  cool  and  soft  embrace, 
And  dares  to  listen  to  its  many  tales, 
Whispered  and  low,  as  were  the  quiet  tones 
We  heard  in  childhood  from  a  mother's  lips; 
But  when  in  anger,  the  great  surges  roll, 
And  caverns  open  in  the  depths  below, 
As  deep  as  hell  and  pitiless  as  fate, 
Ah!  then  it  is  man  shrinks,  appalled,  away 
And  prays  for  help  no  mortal  power  can  give ; 
And  God  himself,  as  powerless  seems  to  be 
Against  the  strength  of  His  own  angry  sea. 
60 


LIFE'S  AUTUMN. 

Lines  Inscribed  to  a  Friend. 

To  stand  ennobled,  in  the  golden  haze 

Of  later  autumn,  all  the  land  ablaze 

With  lights  so  varied,  the  unwearied  eye 
Turns  here  and  there,  new  beauties  to  descry; 

Life's  harvest  gathered,  and  the  costly  sheaves 

Piled  high,  and  crowding  to  the  very  eaves 
The  well-filled  garner — this  it  is  to  be 
In  ripe  old  age,  from  meaner  passions  free. 

For  you,  my  friend,  the  Autumn  time  has  come, 
The  ripe  nuts  fall — you  hear  betimes  the  hum 
Of  laden  bees,  the  still  warm  Sun  has  prest 
To  labors  new,  ere  Winter  gives  them  rest. 
The  branches  bend  with  later  fruits  that  cling 
To  leafless  trees — these  wait  the  coming  Spring 
And  that  new  life  that  bye-and-bye  shall  be 
Revealed  again,  in  every  budding  tree. 

Nature  is  trustful;  with  a  faith  sublime 
She  patient  waits,  knowing,  in  God's  good  time 
Shall  be  revealed  His  larger  purpose,  shown 
In  changing  seasons,  and  in  ways  His  own. 
So  age  should  wait,  trustful  and  satisfied, 
With  what  He  gives — man  cannot  override 
61 


62  LIFE'S  AUTUMN. 

Divine  appointments,  and  the  wise  are  they 
Who  trust  in  God,  and  lovingly  obey. 

Somewhere  beyond — we  know  not  where  it  lies, 
Or  where  its  bounds,  or  underneath  what  skies 
The  dead  are  gathered;  but  beyond — somewhere- 
There  lies  a  land,  than  other  lands  more  fair, 
Where  the  glad  soul,  released  from  death  and  sin, 
Shall  a  new  life  with  untold  joy  begin. 

This  faith  possessed,  we  overleap  the  pain 
Of  earthly  partings.      "  Man  shall  live  again!' 


ON  THE  SKIRMISH  LINE. 

Ho!     Comrades  on  the  Skirmish  Line !     All  Hail! 

With  pain  I  look  down  our  thin  lines,  to  see 
How  fast  you  fall ;  the  bravest  faces  pale, 
And  not  a  cheer,  betok'ning  victory. 
Our  foe  is  Death, 
Our  lives  a  breath — 
We  only  wait  his  victims  soon  to  be. 

I  see  your  grey  hairs  flying  in  the  breeze, 

Your  wrinkled  faces,  battle-scarred,  and  thin, 
Your  feeble  steps — by  many  signs  like  these, 
I  know  the  fight,  you  cannot  hope  to  win. 
Retreat  is  vain, 
Only  the  slain 
With  some  defiance,  at  the  Conquerer  grin. 

Life's  great  battalions  in  the  rear,  they  come 
With  banners  flying,  full  of  life  and  cheer, 
Their  steps  in  time  with  trumpet  blare,  and  drum, 
And  ALL  elate,  with  scarce  a  sign  of  fear. 
In  long  array 
They  press  this  way, 
To  fill  our  ranks,  so  soon  to  disappear. 
63 


64  ON  THE  SKIRMISH   LINE. 

Far  in  the  rear,  the  young,  with  jest  and  song, 
And  merry  dance,  strew  flowers  by  the  way; 
And  Love's  sweet  glances,  thrill  the  giddy  throng, 
And  life  is  all  a  merry  roundelay. 

How  sweet  the  dream  ! 
How  swift  the  stream  ! 
That  on  and  on,  bears  youth,  and  all  away. 

The  middle  ranks — See  how  they  press  this  way ! 
Ambitious,  proud,  self-willed,  and  very  strong 
For  Life's  great  battle — they  have  ceased  to  play — 
And  all  intent,  they  grandly  move  along. 
With  battle  hymn, 
And  faces  grim, 
They  face  the  foe,  and  would  the  strife  prolong. 

Ho!  Comrades  on  the  skirmish  line!  we  wait, 

And  bide  our  time.     These,  soon  or  late  will  fill 
Our  places  here;  and  whether  soon  or  late, 
Is  not  for  us — whenever  God  shall  will. 
Ho !  Comrades  mine ! 
Our  skirmish  line 
Grows  thin  and  weak — the  very  air  is  chill. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Died  Oct.  7,  1894. 

A  grand  Old  Man,  a  Poet,  loving,  true, 
That  from  real  life  his  inspirations  drew, 

Lies  down  at  last,  in  holy  peace  to  rest — 
One  of  the  few  we  love  and  honor  best. 

The  Old  Immortals,  of  a  race  now  rare, 

Open  their  ranks,  that  he  with  them  may  share 

The  full  fruition  of  a  life  that  ends, 

With  naught  to  mar,  and  all  mankind  his  friends. 

As  "Autocrat,"  he  made  New  England  share 
In  all  his  triumphs — drew  about  his  chair, 

As  willing  list'ners,  half  the  world  beside, 
Stirred  by  an  impulse,  close  to  love  allied. 

When  he  was  born,  the  gods  relenting,  knew 

The  time  was  ripe  for  inspirations  new ; 

And  gave  to  him  companionship  so  rare, 
That  in  their  triumphs  he  was  proud  to  share. 

Though  old  in  years,  in  thought  and  ready  tongue, 
He  kept  the  faith  of  those  forever  young, 

And  made  old  age,  pay  tribute,  as  it  should, 
To  every  impulse  that  was  youthful,  good. 
65 


66  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

To  sing  his  praise  in  higher  strains  of  art, 
Is  useless  quite — he  touched  the  world's  great  heart 
With  such  rare  skill,  henceforth  his  fame  shall  rest 
Secure  in  this,  he  gave  mankind  his  best. 

Lay  him  to  rest!     Men  call  this  death,  but  pray, 
What  was  this  life,  death  had  no  power  to  slay? 
Immortal  now,  death  could  but  lay  aside 
Life's  useless  things,  where  no  great  hopes  abide. 

In  full  completeness,  rounded  out  at  last, 
He  lives  to-day,  as  in  the  years,  now  past; 
And  will  live  on,  without  a  pain  or  care, 
While  in  his  gifts,  a  grateful  people  share. 


THE  CZAR,  ALEXANDER  III. 

Died  in  his  Palace,  in  Livadia,  Nov.   ist,   1894. 

Dead  in  his  palace,  lies  the  Russian  Czar, 
Helpless  in  death,  as  humble  peasants  are —     . 
In  war  a  Sovereign,  nations  held  in  awe, 
In  peace  a  King,  whose  word  became  as  law; 
Now  dead  he  lies, 
Beneath  Crimean  skies, 
And  startled  Europe  owns  a  sad  surprise. 

What  foe  is  this,  that  bids  a  King  lie  down, 
Takes  from  his  head,  the  great  Imperial  crown, 
And  bids  another,  young  in  years,  to  take 
The  glittering  bauble,  held  for  Russia's  sake? 
Armies  are  vain; 
Great  fleets  cannot  sustain 
Unequal  conflict,  or  advantage  gain. 

Eastward  and  westward,  northward,  southward  run 
Heralds,  swift-winged,  to  tell  what  Death  has  done; 
And  by  the  Volga,  and  the  Danube's  flow 
Great  Russia  weeps,  and  owns  supreme  her  foe. 
Uneasy  Kings, 
With  low-voiced  whisperings, 
Tell  of  the  terror,  Death,  exultant,  brings. 
67 


68  THE  CZAR,  ALEXANDER  III. 

No  blare  of  trumpets,  and  no  roll  of  drums 
Sound  out  defiance,  as  the  conquerer  conies; 
The  palace  gates,  defenseless,  open  wide 
To  let  Death  in.     Warriors  in  battle  tried 
Make  vain  display; 
And  vet'rans,  old  and  gray, 
Like  women  weep — so  impotent  are  they. 

Pray  what  are  crowns  and  diadems,  that  bring 
So  many  cares  to  a  defenseless  King? 

And  what  are  thrones,  that  topple  in  a  breath, 
And  mock  with  splendor,  the  grim  Court  of  Death? 
Baubles  are  these, 
Ambitious  Kings  to  please; 
Scarce  worth  the  dust  that  soils  a  courtier's  knees. 

Ask  the  dead  Czar — the  Autocrat,  who  lies 
In  funeral  pomp  beneath  his  native  skies? 

His  lips  are  mute,  his  eyes  are  closed  and  dim; 
And  what  are  thrones  and  empires,  now  to  him? — 
The  Czar  is  dead! 
The  new  Czar  reigns  instead; 
And  Russian  peasants  daily  toil  for  bread. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BROOK. 

A  Dream  of  Childhood. 

A  shallow  mountain  brook,  and  fed 

By  springs  so  cool  and  sweet, 
Its  tempting  waters  often  led 
To  some  secure  retreat, 

Where,  listening  !  told  were  all  the  dreams 
That  haunt  the  beds  of  mountain  streams. 

A  rhyme  it  was  to  Childhood's  ears 

Melodious;  and  told 
In  ways  the  intervening  years 
The  priceless  music  hold; 

And  Life's  discordant  notes  of  pain 
Are  lost,  when  this  is  heard  again. 

A  rustic  bridge  its  waters  spanned, 

Where,  underneath,  in  Spring 
The  Phoebe-birds,  at  love's  command, 
Come  back  to  woo,  and  sing, 

And  build  their  nests — a  gentle  pair 
That  reared  their  callow  young  with  care. 

That  brook  and  bridge,  in  boyhood's  days 

My  careless  steps  beguiled — 
I  little  knew  the  weary  ways 

That  life  would  bring  the  child; 
69 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BROOK. 

I  only  knew,  that  pain  or  care 

In  those  bright  days  had  little  share; 

For,  standing  ever  by  my  side, 

A  prattling  maiden  grew 
To  understand,  with  childish  pride 
That  I  to  her  was  true — 

That  she  was  true  to  me,  was  told 
In  artless  ways,  restrained  nor  bold. 

The  babble  of  the  mountain  brook 

From  her  sweet  lips  I  heard, 
And  in  her  dark  blue  eyes  to  look 
So  many  sweet  thoughts  stirred, 

That  bridge  and  brook,  and  earth  and  sky, 
Gained  something,  mirrored  in  her  eye. 

O  Maiden,  of  those  early  years  f 
These  later  years  could  bring 
For  you,  for  me,  but  griefs  and  fears 
And  hopes,  fast  withering; 

These  early  loves  alone  remain 
Untarnished  by  long  years  of  pain. 

The  babbling  brook  still  murmurs  sweet, 

As  in  the  days  of  yore. 
And  nesting  birds  their  songs  repeat — 
Alas!  for  us  no  more 

They  sing  their  songs,  and  far  away 
The  brook  where  we  were  wont  to  play, 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BROOK. 

0  Bridge  and  Brook!  O  Maiden  fair! 
O  Childhood !  All  a  dream  ? 

1  sometimes  wonder  men  can  bear 
To  have  these  visions  seem 

So  very  real,  whilst  life  opprest 

With  present  cares,  finds  peace  nor  rest. 


•SLEEP!  To  sleep!  Most  blessed  sleep 

Breaks  life's  dull  round  of  care; 
No  weary  vigils  here  to  keep, 
No  agonizing  prayer. 
One  good  night  kiss, 
A  sense  of  bliss 
The  loving  only  share ; 

And  then  away !     To  sleep  away ! 
Without  a  thought  of  yesterday. 
72 


AN   EVENING  SONG.  73 

To  sleep !     To  sleep !     The  drowsy  wings 

Of  angels,  wait  to  bear 
With  low  and  whispered  murmurings 
All  sense  of  being,  where 
Sweet  lullabys 
With  dreams  suffice 
To  keep  away  all  care ; 

And  sound,  enchanted,  dare  not  wake 
The  echoes,  charmed  for  Slumber's  sake. 

To  sleep!     To  sleep!     To-morrow's  sun 

Man  has  no  power  to  stay, 
His  heralds  on  swift  feet  will  run 
To  drive  all  sleep  away. 
Night  loveth  sleep — 
The  day  must  keep 
With  constant  care  the  noisy  ways 
That  Toil  must  pass  through  weary  days. 


ONE  DAY  WITH  GOD,  ALONE. 

One  day  with  God  alone — my  Soul  and  I — 
With  God  the  Father.     Question  and  reply, 

But  voiceless  all;  as  love  is  voiceless,  stirred 
To  quick  response,  that  needs  no  spoken  word. 

Thus  He  to  me,  revealed  himself — drew  near — 
My  soul  attent,  my  heart  with  holy  fear 

Beating  in  measure,  with  the  pulsing  tide 
That  fills  all  space,  and  not  to  me  denied. 

So  close  He  came,  He  touched  my  eyes,  else  dim- 
They  opened  wide,  in  this  new  light,  from  Him 

A  light  supernal,  reaching  wide  and  far, 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  moon,  or  sun,  or  star; 

And  Earth  itself  was  glorified — the  trees, 

Rivers  and  lakes,  mountains,  and  rolling  seas, 

With  a  new  grace,  appealed  to  sense  and  sight, 
And  made  the  world,  one  scene  of  rare  delight. 

He  touched  my  ears,  and  music,  else  unheard, 
Filled  all  the  air — no  music-making  bird 

But  warbled  sweeter;  and  the  soft  refrain 
Of  angel  voices,  gladdened  earth  again. 
74 


ONE  DAY  WITH  GOD,  ALONE.  75 

He  touched  my  tongue — polluted  taste  was  there — 
Contented  not,  with  God's  abundant  fare; 

And  taste  revived,  well  pleased  to  learn  at  last, 
That  God  in  nature  spreads  a  rich  repast. 

He  touched  my  lips — they  opened  wide,  to  sing 

New  songs  of  praise,  to  Him,  earth's  Lord  and  King; 

And  made  them  tell  of  love,  and  grace  Divine, 
That  in  the  Christ,  like  precious  jewels  shine. 

One  day  with  God  alone!     O  Soul  of  mine! 

All  other  help,  all  other  hopes  resign; 
Life  is  not  vain,  earth  has  no  weary  care 

When  God  is  near,  and  present,  everywhere, 

A  day  with  Him,  transfigures  things  of  sense, 
And  makes  of  want,  abundant  competence. 

All  sight,  all  sound,  all  sense  through  Him  made  free, 
Reveal,  in  part,  what  Heaven,  at  last,  must  be. 


LINES. 

Inscribed  to  my  Friend,  Judge  A.  S.  T.,  past  83  years  of  age, 
January   i4th,  1893. 

At  four  score  years,  Nature,  contented,  waits 
And  ponders  well,  which  way  the  mystic  gates 

Of  life  should  swing;  and  whilst  she  ponders,  lo! 

The  Fates  alert,  their  untried  power  to  show, 
Demand  "  the  gates  shall  have  an  outward  swing 
To  pass  along  those  who  some  proof  can  bring 

That  they  have  kept,  through  all  these  years,  the  glow 

And  loves  of  youth,  and  by  their  faces  show 
The  proof  required." 

For  three  full  years,  and  more, 

Has  careless  Nature  quite  forgot  the  score 
Of  eighty  years;  and  the  indulgent  Fates 
With  cheerful  hands  have  opened  wide  the  gates 

For  you  to  pass,  and  still  your  genial  ways 

Give  promise  large  of  many  happy  days; 

And  many  years,  for  friends,  both  old  and  new 
To  test  the  bond  that  binds  them  all  to  you. 

God  bless  the  men,  who  old,  are  ever  young, 
And  on  their  brows  let  garlands  fresh  be  hung; 

They  teach  mankind,  this  simple  truth  to  test, 
"They  longest  live,  who  love  and  serve  the  best." 
76 


IN  MEMOR1AM 

James  G.  Blaine. 

One  known  to  fame,  in  life's  great  conflicts  tried, 

Lies  down  at  last  to  take  his  needful  rest. 
Men  call  him  dead;  for  Nature  satisfied 
Signals  no  more,  to  call  her  bravest,  best, 
To  fields  of  action,  where  his  trusty  blade 
In  ranks  opposing,  open  pathways  made. 

Yes!     Blaine  is  dead,  if  death  it  be  to  lie 

In  that  calm  state,  that  gives  no  outward  sign, 
Of  human  action,  and  no  lips  reply 
To  eager  questions,  seeking  to  divine 

What  new  thought  next,  shall  stir  heroic  strife. 
And  make  for  man,  in  the  rough  joust  of  life. 

A  partisan,  He  made  all  party  ties 

Do  loyal  service  to  his  higher  creeds — 
Striving  to  shape  a  people's  destinies 
In  ways  befitting  a  great  nation's  needs; 
And  having  won,  his  glad  ambition  saw 
New  thought  take  shape,  in  needful  forms  of  law. 

A  Patriot  he,  he  dared  to  count  the  cost 

Of  earnest  action,  for. the  good  of  all; 
And  never  dreamed  that  conflict,  hopeless,  lost, 

Though  his  worn  hosts,  beleagured  were,  and  small: 

77 


78  IN  MEMORIAM. 

And  when  advancing,  his  glad  steps  outran 
The  very  bravest,  in  his  zeal  for  man. 

Men  call  this  death.     The  poet  understands 
This  is  not  death ;  but  life  immortal,  won — 
The  hour  of  triumph,  when  with  willing  hands 
The  Muse,  historic,  owns  her  favored  son; 
And  all  the  ages,  shall  henceforward  tell 
Of  Him  who  served  his  country  long  and  well. 

Bear  Him  to  rest!     A  partisan  no  more! 

All  parties  vie  to  honor  Him  at  last; 
They  come  to  know,  and  touch  that  better  shore— 
Upon  whose  sands,  no  wrecks  of  hate  are  cast; 
And  the  horizon,  stretching  wide  and  far, 
Reveals  how  mean  life's  narrow  visions  are. 

Bear  Him  to  rest,  with  love  and  patient  care; 

And  whilst  the  nations,  keeping  time  and  place 
To  mellow  music,  in  the  pageant  share, 
Let  us,  his  comrads,  the  occasion  grace 

With  chant,  and  hymn,  and  words  expressive,  said 
In  earnest  speech,  in  honor  of  our  dead. 


FRANK  D.  CURTIS: 

A  Memorial  Tribute. 

Voiceless  is  one  whose  voice  we  loved  to  hear. 

We  listen,  wait; 
But  wait  in  vain.      His  presence  once  a  cheer, 

His  step  elate, 

Is  seen  not,  heard  not.     Seek  him  where  we  may, 
We  seek  in  vain — Death  bars  its  gates  alway. 

Not  long  ago,  among  true,  earnest  men 

He  foremost  stood, 
Willing  to  serve,  with  ready  tongue  and  pen, 

All  human  good; 

But  loving  best  the  farmer's  life,  he  there 
Labored  with  zeal  and  most  untiring  care. 

In  life's  full  tide,  his  seeming  task  undone, 

His  work  approved, 
His  counsel  sought,  his  friendships  fairly  won, 

By  all  beloved — 

What  call  to  go  ?     Alas,  he  could  not  stay, 
When  death  made  haste  to  summon  him  away. 

The  home  he  graced  is  stricken;  and  the  farm 

He  loved  to  till, 

There  finding  daily  some  unwonted  charm 
His  heart  to  thrill, 
79 


So  FRANK  D.  CURTIS. 

Makes  mute  appeal  to  herds,  and  flocks,  and  trees, 
For  his  kind  face  and  thoughtful  ministries. 

At  home,  abroad,  the  tillers  of  the  soil 

Honored  the  man, 
Who  strove  to  lighten  the  demands  of  toil, 

And  dared  to  plan 

For  better  homes  and  broader  lives,  and  fields 
Where  nature,  pleased,  abundant  harvest  yields. 

In  serving  others,  he  best  served  the  State; 

And  labor  knew, 
In  thought  and  purpose  he  was  more  than  great, 

That  he  was  true 

To  the  demands  of  unskilled  toil,  and  knew 
On  barren  fields  what  scanty  harvests  grew. 

And  so  he  labored,  earnestly  and  long, 

With  right  good  will, 
To  cheer  mankind,  and  make  the  weaker  strong, 

And  thus  fulfill 

The  higher  claims  of  brotherhood — the  test 
Of  Christian  manhood,  noblest,  truest,  best. 

To  draw  the  curtain  of  the  grave  is  vain ; 

He  is  not  there. 
But  dust  and  ashes,  these  alone  remain, 

To  mock  our  prayer; 

We  only  know,  that  in  that  dim  unknown, 
Our  God  and  Father  keeps  and  guards  His  own. 


FRANK  D.  CURTIS.  f 

One  joy  remains:  in  memory's  glass  we  see, 

With  scarce  dimmed  eye, 
Our  genial  Curtis  as  he  used  to  be, 

In  days  gone  by: 

We  hear  him  speak,  we  catch  his  hopeful  cheer, 
And  almost  wonder  that  he  is  not  here. 

Dear  friend  and  brother!     Near  and  yet  so  far, — 

The  way  seems  long: — 
No  light  breaks  through  from  sun  or  moon  or  star; 

But  faith  made  strong, 

O'erleaps  the  grave,  and  with  exultant  breath 
Shouts  back  "He  lives !  Conquered,  the  conqueror  Death. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

A  merry  Prince,  the  New  Year  comes 

With  treasure  in  his  hands — 
His  fleets  on  varied  oceans  sail, 
And  when  the  Prince  commands 
They  furl  their  sails,  in  port  to  lie, 
Or,  seaward,  on  white  wings  they  fly. 

He  gives  to  all,  and  takes  from  all; 

And  what  he  gives  away 
He  takes  to-morrow  back  again — 
It  seems  an  idle  play 

To  take  and  give,  and  give  and  take, 
For  giddy  Fortune's  own  dear  sake. 

These  passing  days — the  pets  of  time — 

He  treats  with  little  care; 
He  starts  them  off  to  tramp,  at  dawn, 
On  very  scanty  fare; 

And  when  the  night  comes,  not  a  star 
Knows  where  these  little  wanderers  are. 

The  weeks  he  tends  with  greater  care; 

And  once  I  heard  him  say 

"  A  Prince,  or  pauper,  was  a  fool 

To  throw  a  week  away." 

82 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  83 

A  sage  conclusion,  doubtless  made, 
When  Folly  made  the  Prince  afraid. 

A  month!"     "A  month!"     The  royal  court 

Grew  restless  and  afraid 
The  Prince  would  be  a  beggar  soon 
Unless  he  quickly  made 

A  new  departure — toil  and  fast 
Cannot  redeem  the  time  once  past. 

This  made,  the  Prince  began  at  once 

To  count  his  priceless  store, 
Repeating,  "  twelve  times  one  is  twelve, 
Just  that,  and  nothing  more; 

And  twelve  times  one — a  Prince  or  dunce, 
Should  need  this  problem  solved  but  once." 


PRAYER. 

Morning  and  Evening. 
MORNING. 

The  Morning  comes.     To  hallow  it  with  prayer 
Is  man's  first  duty,  for  God's  loving  care. 

The  Night  has  fled,  with  all  her  drowsy  train, 
And  Day  comes  back,  to  cheer  the  world  again. 

Down  through  the  valley,  messengers  have  run 
Through  creeping  mists,  to  herald  back  the  sun; 

And  gladsome  Nature,  now  refreshed  and  strong. 

Opens  her  lips,  in  many  bursts  of  song. 

So  open  we,  OUR  lips,  in  praise  and  prayer 
To  the  Dear  Lord  for  His  continued  care; 
Not  as  a  duty,  but  with  glad  acclaim, 
Seek  we  the  Lord,  and  speak  His  holy  name. 

Bend  low,  O  Earth !    Bend  low,  O  Soul  of  mine ! 

The  hand  that  guides  thee,  is  a  hand  Divine. 

To  Thee,  O  Lord!  some  tribute  we  would  pay, 
And  give  Thee  thanks,  for  this  returning  day. 

EVENING. 

Departing  Day  has  lingered  in  the  west, 
For  Night  to  come,  in  somber  garments  drest; 

She  lights,  the  stars,  and  sets  them  in  the  sky, 
To  cheer  the  world,  whilst  darkness  passeth  by. 


PRAYER.  85 

The  world  needs  rest — it  cometh  not  too  soon, 
Too  fierce  the  sun,  were  it  forever  noon ; 

And  evening  shadows,  when  with  toil  opprest, 

Invite  to  slumber,  and  to  quiet  rest. 

We  give  Thee  thanksj  Dear  Lord !  Our  souls  attest, 

The  day  for  toil,  the  night  for  quiet  rest; 
So  ere  we  slumber,  we  look  up  to  Thee, 
And  hymn  Thy  praise,,  and  bend  a  willing  knee. 

To  be  forgiven,  we  would  humbly  pray — 

The  sins  of  life,  are  many,  day  by  day; 

Both  day  and  night  we  need  Thy  tender  care, 
Forgive  and  keep  us — this  our  evening  prayer. 


IN  THE  STUDIO. 

This  home  of  art,  is  the  abiding  place 

Of  earnest  thought,  and  most  unselfish  care — 
Of  constant  struggle  after  forms  that  grace 
Man's  higher  nature.     Life  is  here  a  prayer, 

A  longing,  waiting,  those  must  know,  who  stand 
Enraptured,  seeing  the  Enchanted  Land. 

This  vision  seen,  the  artist  hence  must  press 

With  feet  of  pain  to  heights,  that  seeming  lie 
But  just  beyond — feeling  his  nothingness 
And  human  weakness,  as  the  years  go  by; 
But  still  impelled,  again  and  yet  again, 
To  reach  the  goal,  art  cannot  here  attain. 

Nature  is  kind;  but  she  has  ways,  her  own, 

Where  none  can  pass,  assured  and  satisfied; 
But  unto  art,  she  has  some  kindness  shown, 

And  though  from  others,  she  rare  gifts  may  hide, 
She  gives  to  art,  that  rarer  sense,  that  sees 
Supreme  delights,  earth's  charming  mysteries. 

Sometimes  the  sunshine  and  the  shade  combine 

To  touch  the  valleys,  make  the  mountains  stand 
In  royal  robes,  as  though  some  power,  divine 

Approaching  near,  had  touched  them  with  His  hand 

Then  art,  made  bold,  the  visions  keep,  for  aye, 

Though  all  the  grandure  fades  from  sight  away. 

86 


In  The  Studio. 


IN  THE  STUDIO. 


A  holy  place !     As  the  rapt  prophet  saw 

God  manifest  in  sacred  tongues  of  fire, 
So  here  the  artist,  shall  new  impulse  draw, 
And  light  new  flames  of  unfulfilled  desire, 
Till  in  the  glow,  transfigured  he  shall  stand 
Prophet  and  priest — all  life  at  his  command. 


ONE  YEAR  OLD. 

A  birth-day  rhyme. 

Only  one  year  old ;  but  my ! 

Looking  into  baby's  eye 

One  can  see  almost  a  score 

Of  bright  things  unseen  before — 

Gems  and  jewels,  things  that  shine. 

Found  not  in  the  deepest  mine. 

Only  one  year  old :  but,  look ! 

Easier  to  read  a  book 

Written  full,  and  not  a  word 
Such  as  mortals  ever  heard 

Than  to  read  the  things  that  she, 

With  her  thoughtful  eyes,  doth  see. 

Every  day,  some  new  surprise 

You  can  see  in  baby's  eyes; 

And  her  babbling  lips  express 
More  than  wiser  folks  can  guess; 

But,  perhaps  the  angels  may 

Understand  what  babies  say. 

Mamma,  sometimes,  tries  to  guess, 
What  her  baby's  lips  express ; 

And  she  fancies — I've  no  doubt — 
Baby's  thoughts  are  all  found  out; 


ONE  YEAR  OLD. 

But  beyond  what  mamma  knows 
Baby  thinks — and  laughs  and  grows. 

ONE  YEAR  OLD.     Ah,  well-a-day. 

Let  the  baby  laugh  and  play — 

Let  her  think  and  let  her  grow, 
Careless,  of  the  things  we  know: 

By  and  by — we  wait  to  see 

What  her  future  life  shall  be. 


BACK  ON  THE  FARM  AGAIN. 

Back  on  the  Farm  again !  a  glad  release 
From  noise  and  stir,  to  this  domain  of  peace. 
The  city  streets,  walled  in  on  either  side     . 
With  brick  and  mortar,  hold  a  restless  tide 
Of  human  life,  with  no  glad  impulse  free, 
That  is  not  touched  by  human  misery; 
Wealth  jostles  want,  and  Sin  and  Virtue  meet, 
Or  walk  together  through  the  crowded  street. 
On  the  Farm  I  only  see 
Nature  in  her  purity — 
Flowers  bloom,  and  grasses  grow 
From  the  seeds  I  plant  or  sow; 
Grass  or  grain  I  choose,  and  find 
Nature  to  my  choice  inclined; 
And  the  winds,  unvexed,  are  free 
In  their  blessed  ministry, 
Full  of  health  and  odors  sweet, 
Found  not  in  the  crowded  street. 
This  is  rest — a  heaven  to  be 
From  the  city's  turmoil  free. 
Rest  undisturbed  by  the  discordant  din 
Of  midnight  revels  from  the  haunts  of  sin, 
And  Toil  unvexed  by  that  unholy  strife, 
That  in  the  city  frets  and  fevers  life. 
90 


BACK  ON  THE  FARM  AGAIN.  91 

Back  on  the  Farm  again — I  hear  no  more 

The  din  of  Trade,  with  its  tumultuous  roar, 

Or  walk  or  ride,  through  streets  defiled,  and  made 

At  brightest  noon-day,  but  a  noisome  shade, 

Through  which  the  odors  of  a  foul  decay 

Are  wafted  freely,  if  by  night  or  day; 

Where,  night  or  day,  the  tread  of  weary  feet 

Goes  echoing  down  the  long  and  tiresome  street. 

On  the  Farm  the  clover  grows, 

Breath  as  sweet  as  any  rose, 

And  the  wings  of  busy  bees, 

Flying  o'er  these  crimson  seas, 

Honey  laden,  tell  that  they 

Duty's  calls,  with  cheer  obey; 

Whilst  the  merry-making  birds, 

Knowing  not  the  form  of  words, 

In  a  language  all  their  own 

Praise  the  Lord  for  mercies  shown ; 

City  choirs  and  organ  notes, 

Equal  not  their  tuneful  throats. 
In  grand  cathedrals,  city  folk  may  try 
To  worship  God;  but  underneath  the  sky 
In  Nature's  temple,  God  himself  is  there, 
His  ear  attent  to  every  song  or  prayer. 

Back  on  the  Farm  again !     The  years  I  spent 
In  city  life,  were  more  than  banishment; 
They  filled  my  soul  with  anxious  cares,  unrest, 
For  those,  my  children,  loved  and  cherished  best, 


92  BACK  ON  THE  FARM  AGAIN. 

Shut  out  from  Nature,  with  no  healthful  play 
On  grassy  lawns,  as  day  succeeded  day — 
No  fruits  or  flowers  in  easy  reach,  fresh  grown, 
No  trees  or  plants,  or  playground,  all  their  own. 
On  the  Farm  the  children  know 
Where  the  sweetest  berries  grow, 
When  the  nuts  are  ripe  to  fall, 
Where  the  apple,  large  or  small, 
That  is  mellow,  tart  or  sweet, 
Good  enough  for  kings  to  eat; 
And  to  see  them  in  the  Spring, 
Open-eyed  and  wondering, 
As  the  buds  to  blossoms  grow, 
And  their  wealth  of  color  show — 
Then  I  know  how  great  the  charm 
Childhood  finds  upon  the  Farm. 
Ah!  then  it  is,  the  city  seems  to  me 
The  bane  of  childhood — life  a  mockery; 
In  cellars  damp,  in  garrets  dark  and  chill, 
Childhood  is  cursed,  and  graveyards  early  fill. 

Back  on  the  Farm  again! — I  look  around, 
All  sights  but  please,  and  to  my  ears  no  sound, 
Harsh  and  discordant.     Earth  and  air,  and  sky, 
Like  songs  well  sung,  make  only  harmony. 
The  landscape  glows  with  color,  and  the  trees 
Wave  palms  of  joy,  in  every  passing  breeze; 
And  sun  and  cloud,  alike  their  blessings  bring — 
A  realm  my  own,  and  I  the  happy  king. 


BACK  ON  THE  FARM  AGAIN.  93 

On  the  farm  all  days  are  blest, 

Some  with  toil,  and  some  with  rest — 

Always  near  to  Nature's  heart, 

She  can  rarest  grace  impart. 

With  the  dawn,  the  morning  light 

Shows  some  new  and  rare  delight, 

And  the  noon,  with  radiant  face, 

Is  a  minister  of  grace; 

And  the  day's  declining  light 

Welcomes  the  return  of  night, 

Bird  and  beast,  or  great  and  small, 

Love  the  farm — God  cares  for  all. 
Earth  has  no  heaven ;  but  I  here  can  see 
So  much  of  God,  in  boundless  mercy  free, 
So  little  know  of  greed,  and  want,  and  sin, 
My  home  is  safe — a  castle,  well  walled  in. 


JUNE. 

Only  one  June — its  days  and  nights  complete 
With  life  and  growth — its  songs  melodious  sweet, 
As  sung  by  birds — its  fragrant  flowers  aglow 
With  all  the  beauty  earth,  or  Heav'n,  may  know- 
Its  skies  serene — its  sun  a  living  fire, 
That  quickens  all  things  with  a  new  desire: 
And  all  things  living,  with  conspiring  breath, 
Proclaim  in  June,  "  life  has  no  sense  of  death." 

OJune!     Dear  June!     It  is  enough  to  know 
Our  sinful  lives,  in  thee,  take  strength,  and  grow 
To  something  better — that  in  dreams  we  see 
Visions  of  what  that  better  life  must  be; 
And,  Soul  of  mine !  walk  well  attent — beware 
You  lose  not  all,  in  weary  rounds  of  care — 
Open  all  doors,  and  be  thyself,  in  tune, 
To  gladly  welcome  the  inspiring  June. 


NOW. 

Life  comes  and  goes;  each  new  day  brings  a  test 
That  tries  our  manhood.     Gifts  the  costliest 
Are  soon  attained,  or,  lost  for  aye  must  be 
Henceforth  a  dream,  a  cheat,  a  mockery. 
The  grey-beard,  Time, 
With  eloquence  sublime, 
Calls  for  quick  action,  makes  delay  a  crime. 

Life  may  be  burthened  by  excess  of  care; 
Success  waits  not  on  bended  knees,  for  prayer; 
It  waits  for  action  and  heroic  strife 
To  do  their  part  in  the  rough  joust  of  life. 
Foe  then  meets  foe, 
And  souls  prophetic  know 
What  life  demands,  and  to  the  conflict  go. 

That  time  is,  Now.     The  fates  alert,  would  bring 
To  active  manhood,  choicest  offering. 

The  fruit  of  years,  on  branches  bending  low, 
Has  ripened  well — it  ceases  soon  to  grow. 
The  wise  are  they, 
Who  gather  when  they  may — 
O'er-ripened  fruit  but  hastens  to  decay. 

All  times,  all  creeds,  all  hopes,  all  thrones  must  bow, 
And  own  supreme  God's  great  Evangel,  Now; 
95 


96  NOW. 

All  joy  is  here — man's  holiest  desires 
Are  here  expressed — the  everlasting  fires 

Are  kindled  here, 

Whose  rays  and  warmth  shall  cheer 
Whilst  years  roll  on,  when  heav'n  itself  is  near. 

O  Soul  of  mine!     There  is  no  recompense 
For  long  delays — manhood  has  no  defense 
Against  inaction.     Wanting  heroic  will, 
Effort  is  vain,  life's  mission  to  fulfil. 
There  is  no  creed 
To  supplement  a  deed; 
The  best  resolve  is  but  unplanted  seed. 

God's  time  is  Now.     His  gracious  hand  is  shown 
In  the  rich  fruitage,  vanished  years  have  grown — 
It  makes  a  day  all  prophecy  fulfill, 
And  crowns  with  triumph,  those  who  work  His  will. 
Repentance,  late, 
Howe'er  importunate, 
Opens  no  doors  to  make  Occasion  great. 


AN  OCTOBER  SONG. 

Oct.   1 7th,  '94. 

Men  may  work,  and  men  may  play; 

But  this  rare  October  day, 

All  my  sense  of  beauty  thrills — 
O  the  glory  of  the  hills ! — 

Labor  not,  and  know  no  care, 

God  is  present  everywhere. 

On  the  the  valley  lands,  the  sun 
Smiles,  at  what  October's  done; 
And  the  forests,  all  ablaze 
Crimson,  in  his  cheerful  rays; 
One  as  deft,  as  Nature  knows, 
All  her  wealth  of  beauty  shows. 

Art,  and  Poetry,  and  Song, 

These,  by  right  divine  belong 

To  October — they  would  raise, 
Constant  notes  of  joy  and  praise. 

This,  a  pentacostal  time, 

Making  mortal  life  sublime. 

I  have  often  understood, 
God  as  loving,  kind,  and  good; 
By  His  grace  again  I  see, 
What  October  days  can  be. 
97 


98  AN  OCTOBER  SONG. 

Then  away  with  toil  and  care — 
Let  me  in  this  glory  share ! 

Nature  has  her  moods  and  ways; 

But  with  these  October  days 

She  but  shows  that  man's  desire 
Quickens,  as  with  holy  fire 

From  God's  altar — songs  of  praise 

Let  earth's  favored  children  raise. 

Men  may  dream  of  lands  more  blest, 
By  earth's  favored  ones  possest — 
Yea!  may  dream  of  lands  that  lie 
Somewhere,  in  the  depths  of  sky; 
But  behold  !  this  land  of  mine 
In  October,  seems  divine. 


MORNING  IN  CALIFORNIA. 

Royally,  as  God's  High  Priest, 
From  the  chambers  of  the  east 
Comes  the  Sun,  refreshed  and  strong, 
Cheered,  by  many  bursts  of  song. 
Like  a  strong  man,  cometh  he, 
Pleased,  the  waking  earth  to  see. 

On  the  earth  below  he  smiles, 
And  its  continents  and  isles 
Welcome  him  with  joy  again; 
Whilst  along  the  fruitful  plain 
Every  living  creature  stirs, 
Greeting  him  as  worshippers. 

Proudly,  forth  the  mountains  stand, 
Waiting,  but  a  God's  command 
To  uplift  their  heads,  and  bear 
Higher  still,  in  realms  of  air, 
Earth's  ambitions,  far  away 
From  the  cares  of  yesterday. 

O  the  glory  of  the  morn, 
When  a  glad  new  day  is  born ! 
O  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Where  no  storms  their  banners  fly, 
And  the  Sun,  with  daily  grace, 
Shows  a  bright  and  shining  face ! 
99 


MONTANA. 

Montana,  like  a  monarch  holds 

A  kingdom  all  her  own ; 
Looks  down  her  valleys  satisfied, 
And  from  her  lofty  throne 

Upon  the  snow-clad  mountains,  sees 
A  realm,  the  proudest  king  to  please. 

Great  flocks  and  herds,  roam  far  and  wide 

On  grassy  uplands,  fair 
As  the  green  fields  that  charm  the  East, 
Tilled  with  unwonted  care; 

And  tented  on  the  mountain  sides, 
The  pine,  in  regal  pomp  abides. 

With  precious  stones  the  mountain  brooks 

In  ceaseless  babble,  play, 
Or,  from  the  rocky  ledges  bear 
The  shining  gold  away; 

This,  miser-like,  they  seek  to  hide 
In  sands,  that  bed  the  rippling  tide. 

Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  hills, 
Unwonted  wealth  she  stores — 

These  mountains  are  her  treasure  guard, 
And  through  their  granite  doors 


MONTANA. 

Labor  alone  can  pass,  and  take 

The  wealth  she  holds  for  Labor's  sake. 

Her  Sons,  inured  to  hardy  toil, 

As  with  Thor's  hammer  break 
A  pathway  to  these  hidden  stores, 
Kept  long,  for  Freedom's  sake — 

Content  that  all  the  world  should  share, 
With  them,  the  wealth  they  well  can  spare. 

The  blue  dome  of  her  sky  shuts  in 

A  grandeur,  all  sublime — 
Her  mountains  lift  their  heads  above 
The  fleeting  mists  of  time, 
And  in  eternal  silence  see 
Unfolding,  Life's  strange  mystery. 

The  lips  of  Prophecy  are  dumb; 

The  future,  who  can  span? 
Enough  to  know,  Montana  has 
A  heritage  for  man, 

And  Toil,  in  forrest,  field  and  mine 
Shall  hold  it  all,  by  right  divine. 


THE  TYPE-WRITER'S  SONG. 

Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click! 
'  In  a  merry  round,  like  dancers  fair, 
My  fingers  fly,  with  scarce  a  care 

Of  what  the  wizard  types  shall  say, 
As  they  go  clicking  away,  away. 
Click,   Click! 
Quick,   Quick! 

Tongues  made  of  steel,  and  lips  of  ink 
Tell,  what  th'  wisest  men  may  think. 

Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click! 
This  is  a  race  where  the  coursers  fly 
With  the  speed  of  thought,  whilst  the  drivers  eye 

Is  bright  with  tears  of  joy,  that  tell, 
Of  this  Invention's  miracle. 
Click,   Click! 
Quick,  Quick! 
Faster  and  faster  let  them  fly — 

The  present  laughs  at  the  times  gone  by. 

Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click! 

Thought  is  nimble,  but  quicker  far 
Than  thought  itself,  these  fingers  are, 

Made  of  steel  and  fashioned  well 
The  wonderful  words  of  speech  to  tell. 


THE  TYPE-WRITER'S  SONG.  103 

Click,   Click! 
Quick,  Quick! 

The  world  is  busy  and  men  are  shy 
Of  things  that  creep,  and  dare  not  fly. 

Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click-i-ty,  Click! 

The  slow  old  ways  of  ink  and  pen 
Are  out  of  date,  for  busy  men, 

With  a  Click,  Click,  Click,  the  work  is  done, 
And  the  writer's  task  is  now  but  fun. 
Click,  Click! 
Quick,  Quick! 

As  th'  printed  sheet,  for  itself  has  made 
A  welcome  warm,  in  the  marts  of  trade. 


OUR  UNCLE  JOSH  ; 

And  What  He  Says. 

You  never  knew  "  Our  Uncle  Josh  ?  "  you  say! 

Well !  he  was  made 
For  sturdy  business — work,  to  him,  was  play, 

With  plough  or  spade. 

A  patriot  he,  New  England  born  and  bred, 
And  rough  of  speech,  as  sound  in  heart  and  head; 
He  could  not  help  it — he  was  born  that  way — 
And  once,  when  "  riled,"  I  heard  the  Old  Man  say, 
"  Dod  Rot  the  scamps!  who  dare, 

By  ways  and  means  unfair 
Seek  Party  ends  to  gain,  as  though 

A  Freeman's  honest  vote, 
Was  worth  no  more  than  trading  stock, 
Or,  a  Confederate  note." 

His  Grandsire  was  at  Lexington,  and  stood, 

And  blazed  away 
At  British  red-coats,  saying  "  it  was  good," 

"  And  a  proud  day  " 

That  saw  them  sneaking  back  to  Boston  town, 
And  fairly  whipped,  before  the  sun  went  down. 
A  little  later,  down  at  Bunker  Hill, 
He,  and  his  neighbors  fought,  and  fought  to  kill. 
104 


OUR  UNCLE  JOSH.  105 

But,  Uncle  Josh,  he  says, 

"  That  in  those  early  days, 
A  British  soldier  was  a  saint 

Compared  with  scamps,  who  try 
To  change  a  Freeman's  ballot — 

By  Gosh!  I'd  hang  them  high." 

In  later  years,  the  Sire  of  Uncle  Josh,  and  son 

First  born  and  true 
Of  him  who  fought  so  well  at  Lexington, 

He  also  knew 

What  battle  meant;  for  when  brave  Lawrence  died, 
He  wounded  lay,  near  his  Commander's  side, 

Nor  moaned  or  groaned,  for  well  the  sailor  knew, 
Cost  what  it  might,  his  cause  was  just  and  true. 
But  Uncle  Josh  declares, 
And  in  his  warmth,  he  swears 
"  Impressing  seamen  on  the  sea 

Was  dirty  business,  sure; 
But  '  ballot  stealing,'  that's  a  crime 
No  freeman  should  endure." 

Well!  Uncle  Josh  himself,  he  lived  to  see, 

In  strong  array, 
A  mighty  host  well  armed,  and  led  by  Lee — 

Yea,  saw  the  day 

When  battle  smoke  filled  all  the  southern  sky, 
And  gun  to  gun,  made  murderous  reply, 


io6  OUR  UNCLE  JOSH. 

And  brave  men  fall,  the  Earth  itself  oppressed, 
With  the  slain  thousands,  lying  on  its  breast. 
But  Uncle  Josh,  he  says 
That  "  in  those  bloody  days, 
He  never,  for  a  moment,  thought 

But  what  the  right  would  win, 
And  that  he  fears  these  "  cusses  "  more 
Who  count  "  false  ballots  "  in. 

Says  Uncle  Josh,  "  I'm  getting  old,  I  know, 

And  should  not  swear, 
But  crime  is  crime,  and  evils  thrive  and  grow, 

Unless  with  care 

We  root  them  out;  and  he  who  steals  my  vote 
Steals  me;  and  worse — at  Freedom's  very  throat 
He  holds  a  knife;  and,  damn  him,  patriot  men 
Should  throttle  him,  with  pious  zeal,  Amen ! 
I  love  this  land — 'tis  mine, 
And  yours,  by  right  divine; 
It  is  a  goodly  heritage, 

Worth  all  it  cost,  and  we 
Have  in  our  charge  a  mighty  trust, 
God  help  us  true  to  be." 


GEN'L  W.  T.  SHERMAN, 

Died  Feb.   i4th,   1891. 

A  brave  man  dies;  and  all  heroic  souls 

Mourn  his  departure.      On  Fame's  muster  rolls, 

Another  sign  of  death  and  sorrow  shows, 

A  Hero  gone  to  quiet,  long  repose. 

The  greatest  Soldier  of  the  Age,  lies  down, 

At  last  to  die;  and  loving  fingers  crown 

With  mournful  cypress,  the  dead  form  of  One, 

Who  erst  rode  foremost  when  great  deeds  were  done. 

In  city  streets,  the  busy  feet  of  Trade 
Move  slow — appalled — as  in  the  gloomy  shade 
Of  great  disaster.     Courts  and  Senates  wait, 
To  honor  him  who  honored  most  the  State. 

In  Freedom's  conflict  firm,  clear-eyed  he  saw 
The  majesty,  and  binding  force  of  Law, 

And  held  Rebellion,  as  a  freeman  should, 

Destructive,  fatal,  to  all  human  good. 

A  Chieftain  born.     Our  Grant  and  Lincoln  knew 
And  trusted  him;  and  when  his  bugles  blew 
For  that  long  march,  that  ended  by  the  sea, 
Shout  answered  shout,  "  Lead  on,  we  follow  thee. " 
107 


io8  GEN'L  W.   T.  SHERMAN. 

A  Hero  then — a  Hero  NOW  ;  but  leads 

Where  nodding  plumes,  and  sombre  mourning  weeds 
Through  the  long  lines,  bespeak  a  Nation's  woe, 
As  to  the  grave,  these  countless  mourners  go. 

Lay  him  to  rest !     Aye !  lay  him  proudly  down ; 

His  work  well  done — his  Country's  good  his  crown — 
AT  ONCE  IMMORTAL,  and  his  fame  to  spread, 
Whilst  History  tells  of  earth's  heroic  dead. 

The  brave  sleep  well.     Our  Hero  needs  his  rest — 
Nature  is  kind,  and  knoweth  what  is  best. 

Dear  Mother  Earth !     To  thee,  at  last,  we  send 
Our  great  Commander,  Patriot,  Soldier,  Friend. 


AUNT  RUTH. 

Of  dear  Aunt  Ruth,  it  is  a  joy  to  sing — 

A  quiet  woman,  living  out  her  days 
In  homely  duties,  that  could  only  bring 

From  those  about  her,  kindly  words  of  praise. 
Though  little  known, 
She  held  supreme  a  throne 
Of  rare  dominion,  all  were  pleased  to  own. 

Her  face  was  kindly,  as  all  faces  are 

That  tell  of  feeling,  tender,  loving,  true; 
Though  as  a  beauty,  her's  would  not  compare 
With  many  faces,  early  manhood  knew. 
Some  called  her  plain, 
Who  gladly  would  remain 
Close,  close  beside  her,  her  sweet  smile  to  gain. 

To  plainly  tell  what  made  her  face  so  rare, 

No  easy  task.     I  know  it  had  a  light 
But  rarely  seen  in  handsome  faces,  where 

The  lines  of  beauty  charm  the  ravished  sight; 
But  this  I  know, 
It  never  failed  to  show 
The  kind  of  beauty  that  with  age  must  grow. 

Of  wedded  bliss  she  little  knew — she  seemed 
Wedded  to  all  in  need  of  tender  care; 
109 


io  AUNT  RUTH. 

And  if  of  marriage  she  had  ever  dreamed, 

'Twas  but  a  dream;  and  dreams  with  her  were  rare. 

Once,  she  was  known 

To  tell,  in  undertone, 
A  tale  of  love — */  might  have  been  her  own. 

Some  time  in  life,  she  must  have  loved  and  lost, 

Else,  whence  her  soul  such  tenderness  could  gain  ? 
For  not  a  bride  her  humble  pathway  crossed, 
But  she  was  blessed  and  kiss'd,  and  kiss'd  again; 
And  if  a  tear 
Did  on  her  cheek  appear, 
It  quickly  vanished  in  unwonted  cheer. 

The  children  loved  her.     She  had  words  and  ways 

They  understood;  and  in  her  smiles  they  grew 
To  love  her  more;  and  all  the  passing  days 

They  spent  with  her,  brought  pleasures  ever  new. 
Of  childhood's  lore 
She  had  a  priceless  store, 
The  children  longed  for — always  wanting  more. 

Sick  people  smiled  at  her  approach — they  knew 

No  other  hand  so  eased  the  bed  of  pain ; 
And  healing  herbs,  that  in  the  pastures  grew, 
She  understood,  and  used — but  not  for  gain. 
To  sin  a  foe, 
She  let  the  sinner  know 
All  helpful  aid  she  gladly  would  bestow. 


Some  time  in  life,  she  must  have  loved  and  lost, 
Else,  whence  her  face  such  tenderness  could  gain  ?" 


AUNT  RUTH. 

Dear,  dear  Aunt  Ruth !     If  Heav'n  be  far,  or  near, 

I  little  know — enough,  if  you  are  there 
To  tell  the  angels,  "  in  that  other  sphere, 

Love  hallows  all  things — sacred  is,  as  prayer;  " 
And  in  your  face, 
The  angels  well  can  trace 
What  love  is  like  on  earth,  man's  dwelling  place. 


A  MORNING  SONG. 

Morning  comes :     Awake  !     Awake  ! 

Slumber's  drowsy  mantle  shake. 
Lo!  the  eastern  skies  are  bright — 
Share  with  me  the  morning  light; 

Rise!  and  with  the  morning  bring 

Thankful  hearts — your  offering. 

Morning  comes:  the  new-born  day 

Earthward  sends  its  cheering  ray. 
Rise!  and  with  the  morning  see 
Nature's  joyous  ministry: 

Earth  and  sea,  and  sky  and  air 

All  aglow,  are  passing  fair. 

Morning  comes :     Awake !     Arise ! 
Open  wide  your  dreamy  eyes: 

O'er  the  eastern  hills  the  sun 

Has  another  day  begun. 
Sleep  and  dreams  to  night  belong, 
Morning  claims  from  all  a  song. 

Morning  comes  not — it  is  here, 
And  the  eastern  hills  appear 
Robed  in  glory,  and  the  day 
Speeds  the  sun  along  his  way. 
Rise !  for  Nature  at  her  best, 
Something  better  gives  than  rest. 


LOVE'S  HOUSE. 

Love  built  a  house,  complete,  in  one  short  day — 
A  very  palace,  where  Love  planned  to  stay; 
No  artist  shaped  it,  drew  for  it  no  line, 
And  took  no  shape  but  after  Love's  design. 

What  use  Love  made  of  stone,  or  brick,  or  wood, 

It  matters  not;  for  well  Love  understood 
Material  things  had  little  place  or  part 
In  Love's  affairs — mere  questions  of  the  heart. 

Love  furnished  it,  and  cushioned  every  chair 
With  plushes  soft  as  summer  south  winds  are; 
And  downy  beds  in  snowy  whiteness  drest, 
Inviting  seemed  for  Love's  embrace,  and  rest. 

Upon  the  walls,  Love  hung  with  dainty  care 
Pictures  entrancing,  landscapes  bright  and  fair; 
Such  scenes  as  Love,  in  summer  days  had  seen 
In  quiet  vales,  the  verdant  hills  between. 

Now,  years  have  passed,  and  Love's  house  has  outgrown 
All  present  needs;  and  silence  reigns  alone 

In  halls  untrodden,  save  as  ghostly  feet 

In  solemn  silence  find  a  sure  retreat. 
"3 


ii4  LOVE'S  HOUSE. 

In  banquet  halls  where  Love  once  poured  the  wine, 
No  feasters  gather,  and  no  bright  eyes  shine; 
Spectres  alone,  in  garments  white  and  thin, 
Affrighted  turn,  when  these  are  entered  in. 

These  empty  rooms,  if  given  tongue,  could  tell 

How  Love  essayed,  in  vain,  a  miracle; 

They  should  have  told  of  childhood's  happy  days, 
Ringing  with  laughter  and  parental  praise. 

That  Love's  ambitions  should  his  needs  outgrow, 
Is  doubtless  sad;  but  how  else  should  he  know 

The  limits  set  to  passionate  desire, 

Though  warmed  and  cheered,  as  by  celestial  fire  ? 

In  Love's  first  house,  enough  had  been  shut  in 
To  make  him  loathe  the  outside  world  of  sin; 

And  Love's  first  dream  was  made  complete  and  fair 
As  earthly  life,  in  earthly  bonds  could  bear. 


BEREFT. 

In  Memory  of  E.  M.  J.     Died,  Sep.  14th,  1893. 

('•one,  gone  so  soon!  Ah!  whither  has  he  fled? 

Your  friend,  and  mine — YOUR  nearest,  dearest  friend. 
So  loving,  kind,  I  cannot  make  him  dead, 
Or  stay  the  greetings,  I,  to  him  would  send. 
His  hand  was  warm  a  few  short  days  ago, 
And  in  his  face  affection's  light  and  glow. 

So  quick  the  passage,  little  could  be  said — 

Few  farewells  spoken.     Greetings  we  would  send 
To  other  friends,  numbered  among  our  dead, 
He  could  not  take — so  swiftly  came  the  end. 
A  night  of  pain,  a  day  of  sad  surprise, 
And  death  triumphant,  closed  his  loving  eyes. 

As  ships  go  down  in  some  mysterious  sea, 

No  signals  set  of  dire  distress  and  need. 

And  all  are  lost:  so  went  our  friend,  to  be 

Henceforth  unknown,  save,  as  the  hearts  that  bleed 
And  know  their  loss,  in  silent  hours  shall  see 
His  form  and  face,  as  once  they  used  to  be. 

Alas!  Alas!  That  life  itself  should  know 

So  many  treasures,  lost  to  loving  sight: 
That  as  the  years  in  silence  come  and  go, 

The  friends  we  love,  in  whom  our  hearts  delight. 


n6  BEREFT. 

Should  fade  away — dreams  only  left  to  show 

The  loved  and  lost,  who  cheered  life's  pathway  so. 

Take  courage,  Soul !  These  dreams  are  more  than  dream : 

Henceforth  they  live,  rich  in  the  dowered  past, 
And  these,  our  dead,  shall  living  spirits  seem, 
Unmarred  by  age,  whilst  life  for  us  shall  last; 

And  when  death  comes,  these  dreams  shall  surely  be 
Prophetic  most  of  what  our  eyes  shall  see. 

We  wait,  and  wait:  an  arid  waste  we  see 

In  years  to  come,  bereft  of  those  we  love, 
Forgetting  oft,  that  God  himself  must  be 
As  near  to  us,  if  near  to  those  above; 

And  that  His  love,  scarce  manifest  in  pain, 
Must  fill  the  cup  that  we  in  sorrow  drain. 

O  stricken  Soul !  from  seeming  loss  arise — 

Death  bars  no  entrance  to  love's  fair  domain. 
Love  masters  death,  and  yields  to  no  surprise, 
Well  knowing  that,  the  dead  shall  live  again, 
And  living  make  the  old  loves  stronger,  far 
Than  all  earth's  longings,  and  affections  are. 

Let  tears  be  dried,  and  all  vain  longings  cease — 

Death  broadens  life;  if  but  our  eyes  souls  could  see. 
From  sin  and  pain,  our  Friend  has  found  release, 
And  entered  in  where  God  himself  must  be 

Nearer  and  dearer — where  all  lights  that  shine 
Shall  but  reveal  more  of  his  love,  Divine. 


CALIFORNIA. 

O  land  of  fertile  valleys ! 

O  land  of  mountains  old, 
Stored  with  the  hidden  treasures 

That  men,  as  priceless  hold ! 
O  land  of  sun  and  flowers, 

Of  orchard  fields  that  show 
That  here  the  favored  fruits  of  earth 
•In  great  abundance  grow! 

Sitting  beneath  the  orange  trees, 

Contented,  and  at  rest, 
I  more  than  willing  homage  pay 
This  Daughter  of  the  West. 

The  ocean  sends  its  messengers 

On  viewless  steeds  of  air, 
To  wander  gently  through  the  land, 

And  stir  with  loving  care 
All  living  things,  to  keener  sense 

Of  life,  made  strong  and  free, 
When  tempered  by  the  healthful  touch 
Of  the  life-giving  sea. 

Sitting  beneath  the  orange  trees, 

The  breath  of  ocean  stirs 
My  very  being — trees  and  shrubs 
Bend  low  as  worshippers, 
"7 


n8  CALIFORNIA. 

Above  my  head,  the  mocking  bird, 

With  sense  of  song  opprest, 
Warbles  his  daily  gratitude. 

And  builds,  unharmed,  its  nest; 
And  joining  in  his  cheery  strains, 
A  thousand  notes  are  heard — 
The  morning  song  of  many  birds, 
As  by  one  impulse  stirred. 

Sitting  beneath  the  orange  trees, 

I  with  the  birds  would  sing, 
And  make,  in  less  melodious  strains, 
My  morning  offering. 

Not  far  away,  the  mountains  stand 

Rock-ribbed,  eternal,  bold; 
Above  the  clouds  they  lift  their  heads 

And  seeming  converse  hold 
With  God  himself,  here  manifest 

In  majesty  sublime — 
Great  monuments  that  He  hath  set 
Upon  the  walls  of  Time. 

Sitting  beneath  the  orange  trees, 

I  look  on  these,  and  know 
The  land  eternal  lies  beyond 
Th'  untrodden  peaks  of  snow. 

From  east  to  west,  for  centuries, 
The  tide  of  life  hath  ran — 


CALIFORNIA.  119 

New  England's  granite  hills  were  made 

But  stepping  stones  for  man, 
Whence  a  new  race,  in  purpose  strong, 

Could  westward  look,  and  see 
New  lands,  new  hopes,  new  joys,  new  life, 
For  its  posterity. 

Sitting  beneath  the  orange  trees 

I  see,  at  last,  the  time 
When  man  has  found  a  dwelling  place 
In  earth's  most  favored  clime. 


HAPPY  JIM. 

Strange  that  such  a  man  as  Jim, 
Grown  to  manhood  tall  and  slim, 
Shoulders  stooping,  scarce  a  grace, 
Showing  in  his  well-browned  face, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  look  within 
More  than  outward,  awkward  in 

Both  speech  and  gesture,  and  afraid 
Of  the  simplest  country  maid— 
Strange  that  such  a  man  as  he 
Should  among  his  neighbors  be 
Loved  and  cherished,  and  that  all 
Paid  him  homage,  great  or  small. 

Children  in  his  presence  grew 

Joyous,  thoughtful;  and  he  knew 
All  their  questionings  and  ways, 
And  could  teach  them  truths  or  plays, 

As  no  other  teacher  could ; 

And  they  loved  him,  called  him  good. 
In  the  fields  with  him  they  drew 
Inspiration,  health,  and  knew 

He  would  keep  them  from  all  harm. 

He  the  very  beasts  could  charm; 
And  no  bee  on  rapid  wing 
Had  for  him  a  painful  sting 


HAPPY  JIM. 

Thriftless  was  he  in  his  ways; 

All  the  brightest  summer  days 

Found  him  loitering  here  and  there, 
Seeing  something,  having  care 

That  no  living  thing  should  be 

From  his  searching  glances  free. 

Flowers  to  him  were  more  than  books, 
And  the  babbling  mountain  brooks, 

Leaping  down  through  sun  or  shade, 

For  his  ear  rare  music  made; 
And  in  forests  old  and  dim 
Dryads  sang  and  played  for  him. 

These  he  voiced  in  simple  rhymes, 

Crooning  to  himself  betimes; 
And  to  see  his  eyes  aglow 
With  a  passion,  those  who  know 

Say  is  born  of  subtler  things 

Than  mere  vain  imaginings — 

These  things,  seen  in  Happy  Jim, 
Made  the  neighbors  say  of  him, 
'•  Strange  it  is,  that  such  as  he 

See,  or  rather  seem  to  see, 
More  than  wiser  men  attest, 
Be  their  gifts  the  highest,  best." 

Walking  in  the  fields,  he  saw 
God  revealed  in  changeless  law; 


HAPPY  JIM. 

And  he  learned  to  understand 
Truths,  that  like  a  great  command 

Bade  him  seek,  where'er  he  could, 

Proofs  of  universal  good. 

Thus  he  grew  from  day  to  day, 
Loving,  tender.      In  his  way 

He,  untiring,  sought  to  bring 

Comfort  to  the  sorrowing, 
And  no  bed  of  pain  was  free 
From  his  helpful  ministry. 

In  the  language  of  the  schools 
He  was  little  versed;  and  rules 
Custom  made,  or  creed,  or  sect, 
These  he  held  in  slight  respect; 
But  the  language  of  the  sky, 
Telling  when  a  storm  was  nigh; 
And  that  language,  little  known, 
Nature  speaks  in  undertone 
To  the  soul  that  waits,  attent 
To  the  heavenly  message  sent — 
These  he  understood,  as  they 
Who  great  Nature's  laws  obey. 

Thriftless,  careless,  Happy  Jim! 

I  would  gladly  picture  him 
As  I  saw  him,  moving  slow 
In  the  evening's  after-glow. 


HAPPY  JIM.  123 


In  the  west,  the  clouds  unrolled, 
Leaving  flecks  and  bars  of  gold, 
While  above,  the  crimson  skies 
Gladdened  with  a  new  surprise; 
Then,  transfigured,  Jim  became 
Prophet,  priest,  his  eyes  aflame 
With  a  passion  so  intense, 
Lost  he  seemed  to  meaner  sense. 

Wealth  may  have  its  stores  of  gold, 
And  its  chariots  be  rolled 
Over  victims,  that  must  lie 
Helpless  in  their  poverty; 
Yea!  the  trump  of  Fame  may  blow, 
That  the  gaping  crowd  may  know 
Who  is  master,  who  is  king; 
But  no  wealth  or  fame  can  bring 
What  in  Jim  I  saw  expressed, 
He,  the  humblest,  happiest. 
Lo  !  the  Lord,  -who  fashioned  Jim, 
Gave  the  priceless  gifts  to  him. 


UNCLE  SAMUEL'S  CONVERSION. 

Our  dear  old  Uncle  Samuel 

Awoke  one  morning  early — 
'Twas  summer  time,  and  on  the  grass 

Hung  dew  drops,  large  and  pearly; 
The  very  weeds  had  moistened  lips, 

And  down  among  the  clover, 
Of  rankest  growth,  each  tiny  leaf 

Was  full,  and  running  over. 

The  birds  they  sang,  as  birds  can  sing 

When  in  the  mood  for  singing; 
The  air  was  full  of  melody, 

And  all  the  woods  were  ringing 
With  songs  of  love  and  jubilee, 

And  songs  of  wanton  pleasure, 
Running  together  everywhere, 

In  most  abundant  measure. 

The  very  earth  itself  rejoiced, 
With  every  living  creature, 
And  from  her  altars  offered  up 
Rare  incense,  purer,  sweeter 
Than  ever  came  from  scented  wood 

On  vestal  altars  burning — 
It  was  the  soul  of  myriad  flowers, 
From  earth  to  Heav'n  returning. 
124 


UNCLE  SAMUEL'S  CONVERSION.  125 

The  Lord  be  praised !  for  He  is  good  "- 

Our  Uncle's  heart  had  spoken; 
With  Him  there  is  no  solitude, 

Or  promise  made,  and  broken; 
And  so  in  Him  I'll  put  my  trust  "- 

Then,  with  a  new  emotion, 
Upon  the  grass  he  bent  his  knees 

In  genuine  devotion. 

When  he  arose,  the  eastern  hills 

Looked  nearer,  clearer,  brighter, 
And  never  did  his  morning  tasks, 

Or  life's  dull  cares,  seem  lighter. 
The  sins  that  often  pressed  him  down 

Were  lost  in  light  and  glory; 
And  to  his  heart  at  last  was  told 

Redemption's  matchless  story. 

That  morning,  in  his  pleasant  home, 

His  many  sins  confessing, 
He  knelt,  and  asked  the  loving  Lord 

To  crown  the  day  with  blessing — 
To  give  his  dear  ones  grace  to  break 

From  every  sinful  fetter; 
In  fact,  to  make  them  all  that  day 

In  something  wiser,  better. 

And  this  was  all,  save  day  by  day, 
With  wonderful  completeness, 


126  UNCLE  SAMUEL'S  CONVERSION. 

His  life  went  on,  developing 

In  faith,  and  love,  and  sweetness; 

And,  when  at  last  his  setting  sun 
On  western  hills  was  shining, 

The  clouds  of  death  were  glorious, 
And  showed  a  silver  lining. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TIME. 

Blow!     Winds  of  Winter!     Blow 

Stretch  forth  your  viewless  hands, 
And  waken  every  living  thing, 

Through  all  these  frozen  lands ! 
The  branches  of  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  hemlock's  swaying  limb, 
All  trees  and  shrubs,  wake  these  to  join 
In  one  harmonious  hymn; 

For  is  not  this  the  Christmas  time, 
The  loving,  hopeful  Christmas  time, 
Long  waited  for,  with  faith  sublime. 

Fall  fast !  O  fleecy  snow ! 
Thy  ministry  is  good; 
The  earth,  our  greater  human  needs 

Has  little  understood. 
With  thy  deft  fingers  weave 
A  robe,  of  faultless  seam, 
And  white  as  angel-vestments  are, 
Of  which  the  poets  dream; 

For  lo !  the  earth  receives  a  king, 
And  thou,  O  Snow!  a  robe  shalt  bring 
To  grace  the  happy  welcoming. 

Fly  swifter !   O  ye  Clouds ! 

Through  all  the  realms  of  air; 
Chase  Day  and  Night  the  world  around, 

And  tell  it  everywhere — 


128  THE  CHRISTMAS  TIME. 

To  peoples,  lands — a  Christ  is  born 

For  every  race  and  creed — 
A  living,  sympathizing  soul, 
The  very  Christ  they  need; 

That  this  is  now  the  Christmas  time, 
The  loving,  hopeful  Christmas  time, 
When  want  is  sin,  and  greed  a  crime. 

Beat  fast !  O  throbbing  Heart ! 
And  yield !  O  stubborn  Will ! 
In  God's  good  time,  He  came  at  last 

Love's  mission  to  fulfill. 
He  came  with  tender  words  and  ways, 

The  world's  Redeemer,  guest — 
Gave  manna  to  the  hungry  soul, 
And  to  the  weary,  rest — 

Gave  to  the  world  such  hopes  and  cheer 
As  prophet  tones,  or  lips  of  seer 
Could  never  breathe  in  human  ear. 

Vain  is  your  task,  O  Winds! 
And  yours,  O  fleecy  Snow! 
In  vain  the  swift-winged  Clouds 

Upon  their  mission  go; 
In  vain,  O  throbbing  Heart! 

Is  prayer,  or  song,  or  creed, 
Unblest  by  Love's  sweet  ministry — 
Here,  find  the  Christ  you  need. 

By  this  sweet  grace,  and  this  alone, 
His  praise  shall  spread  from  zone  to  zone, 
Till  all  the  earth  his  sway  shall  own. 


OCTOBER. 

How  broad,  how  deep,  how  calm,  how  sweet, 

These  dear  October  days; 
The  sky  bends  low  the  hills  to  greet, 
And  through  the  dreamy  haze, 
If  heaven  or  earth,  I  cannot  see, 
Or  solve  the  pleasing  mystery. 

'Tis  wonderful !  October's  sun 

Makes  Paradise  of  noon; 
And  Night,  with  all  her  stars,  as  one, 
Pays  homage  to  her  moon. 

The  sun  by  day,  the  moon  by  night 
Stir  every  sense  of  sweet  delight. 

Through  all  the  long  fierce  summer  days 

Swift  messengers  have  run 
To  do,  through  Nature's  secret  ways, 
The  bidding  of  the  sun. 

That  dear  October  well  might  share 
With  all  that  live,  her  dainty  fare. 

Into  her  lap  the  ripe  nuts  fall, 

With  every  breeze  that  stirs — 
All  trees  and  shrubs,  or  great  or  small, 

Bend  low  as  worshippers, 
129 


130  OCTOBER. 

With  the  rich  fruitage  that  they  bring — 
A  whole  year's  bounteous  offering. 

She  bids  the  squirrel  go  with  haste 

And  gather,  where  he  will; 
And  thriftless  idlers,  bids  them  taste 
Till  all  have  had  their  fill. 

She  feeds  the  birds,  that  know  no  care, 
With  seeds  dropped  idly  everywhere. 

She  bends  the  orchard  boughs  low  down 

For  children,  as  they  pass, 
And  fruits,  that  topmost  branches  crown, 
She  drops  among  the  grass, 

Where  Age,  bent  low  by  weight  of  years, 
May  find  unharmed  the  juicy  spheres. 

She  sends  the  countryman  to  town, 

That  city  folk  may  know 
October's  come  their  feasts  to  crown, 
With  all  good  things  that  grow; 

And  all  the  crowded  streets  she  fills 
With  odors  of  the  sweet-breathed  hills. 

She  dips  the  maples  in  a  dye 

Of  rainbow  pigments  made, 
And  hangs  them  on  the  hills  to  dry, 
Before  the  colors  fade; 

And  day  by  day  the  marvel  grows, 
Till  all  the  landscape  burns  and  glows. 


OCTOBER.  131 

The  Frost-King,  with  his  chilling  breath, 

She  watches  close,  with  care, 
Lest  some  dread  sense  or  sign  of  death, 
Should  make  the  good  despair; 
She  bids  the  hopeless  look  and  see 
Death  changed  to  pleasing  mystery. 

O  dear  October!  well  may  I 

Lay  pen  or  pencil  down — 
All  sense  you  more  than  satisfy, 

And  with  such  radiance  crown 
The  distant  hills,  they  prophesy 

Of  hills  unseen  by  human  eye. 

Sometimes,  in  dreams,  I  think  I  see 

What  longing  eyes  have  sought  in  vain, 
Something  of  what  that  land  must  be, 
That  knows  no  sorrow,  want,  or  pain. 
These  hills,  beneath  October  skies, 
Have  caught  the  light  of  Paradise. 


ONE  DAY. 

Another  day — One  Day — 
And  is  that  all  ? 

A  gift  from  Heaven  sent  down — 

Men  deem  it  small. 

The  great  sun  rose,  to  bring  another  day, 
Earth  traveled  far,  and  in  no  idle  way 
That  man  might  have,  of  life,  another  day. 

All  worlds,  all  suns,  all  spheres, 

All  seasons,  months  and  years 

Bring  tribute — as  to  kings 

Are  brought  rich  offerings; 
The  wealth  of  ages,  story,  precept,  rhyme, 
Are  gifts  to  thee,  thou  latest  Son  of  Time. 

It  comes  for  good — One  Day — 

For  highest  good; 
And  for  it  man  should  pay 

Real  gratitude. 

Days  do  not  last;  and  this  day,  crowned  the  best, 
Full  soon  will  fade  and  sink  to  quiet  rest, 
In  the  rich  chambers  of  the  glowing  west; 
And  all  the  wealth  it  brings 
Is  yours,  and  mine.      Proud  kings 
Would  lay  their  crowns  in  dust, 
Forgotten  there  to  rust, 
132 


ONE  DAY.  133 

If,  when  once  past,  the  sacrifice  would  bring 
One  misspent  day,  for  one  unhappy  king. 

It  bringeth  food — One  Day — 
And  houses,  lands, 

It  giveth  eyes  to  see, 
And  willing  hands, 

And  ears  to  hear,  and  friends,  and  loving  words, 
And  sun  and  shade,  and  flocks  and  lowing  herds, 
And  fruits  and  flowers,  and  song  of  many  birds; 

It  lights  up  all  the  hills, 

And  deepest  valleys  fills 

With  life,  and  light,  and  air — 

In  all  these  gifts  we  share; 
It  lifts  the  ocean,  with  a  loving  hand, 
And  drops  its  waters  on  a  thirsty  land. 

It  opens  doors — One  Day — 
Doors  swinging  wide 

As  human  life  can  need, 

Or  human  pride 

Can  well  desire.     The  realm  of  thought  is  there, 
A  mighty  kingdom,  stretching  wide  and  far, 
Beyond  the  moon,  or  light  of  sun  or  star; 

It  opens  this  full  wide — 

Who  will,  may  there  abide. 

No  other  realm  so  fair, 

And  as,  in  temples  rare, 

Who  enters  in,  will  learn  some  truth  sublime, 
That  will  outlast  the  wasting  touch  of  time. 


134  ONE  DAY. 

It  giveth  wings — One  Day — 
Wings  for  the  soul 

To  speed  its  flight  away 

From  pole  to  pole, 

To  girdle  earth,  and  still  unwearied  rise 
To  greater  heights,  in  clearer,  fairer  skies, 
Until  are  seen  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

Most  holy,  holy  Day ! 

Bow  down,  O  Soul!  and  pray; 

The  place  where  thou  dost  stand 

Is  hallowed,  and  God's  hand 
Alone  can  guide  thee  through  a  single  day; 
Bow  down,  O  Soul!  and  for  this  guidance  pray. 


THE  SOUL'S  QUEST. 

An  Eastern  King,  of  power  possest, 
And  wealth,  and  palaces,  the  best — 
(Of  all  men  deemed  the  happiest). 

In  some  way  came  to  understand 
That  God  was  great,  that  in  His  hand 
All  things  were  held;  at  whose  command 

The  earth  itself  rolls  on  its  way 
And  Night  forever  follows  Day, 
And  planets  in  their  courses  stay; 

And  that  this  God,  if  far  or  near 
The  faintest  cry  of  need  could  hear, 
And  grant,  at  will,  the  longed-for  cheer: 

And  feeling  in  his  soul  unrest, 

He  sought  this  God  in  weary  quest, 

Denied  himself  of  things  loved  best. 

Laid  off  his  robes  of  state,  and  wore 
A  beggar's  garb,  and  closed  his  door 
Against  the  rich,  against  the  poor; 

And  fed  on  crusts,  and  crucified 
In  many  ways,  his  lust  and  pride. 
This  done,  his  squl  unsatisfied 

135 


I36  THE  SOUL'S  QUEST. 

Found  peace,  nor  rest.     Then  far  away 
In  deserts  lone,  he  went  to  pray; 
Prone  on  the  sands  outstretched  he  lay 

Beseeching  God  that  He  would  show 
Himself  to  him,  that  he  might  know 
The  way  of  peace,  and  thereby  grow 

To  understand  life's  high  behest — 
Do  what  would  please  his  Maker  best, 
And  thereby  gain  the  longed-for  rest. 

Day  followed  day.     No  answer  came : 
The  desert,  like  a  sea  of  flame 
Tortured  and  burned — he  felt  the  shame 

Of  prayer  unanswered — tried  to  gain 
God's  ear,  through  self-inflicted  pain 
Till  nature  could  no  more  sustain; 

And  then  he  slept,  and  sleeping  saw 
The  mighty  God  revealed  in  law, 
Through  which  the  infinite  would  draw 

All  men  to  Him;  and  saw  at  last, 
That  better  than  the  pain  of  fast, 
Or  gifts,  on  costly  altars  cast 

Was  loving  service,  purified 

From  thought  of  gain  or  selfish  pride; 

And  he  awoke  soul  satisfied. 


THE  SOUL'S  QUEST.  137 

Then  he  arose  and  went  his  way 
To  his  own  land,  that  eastward  lay, 
Willing  to  serve,  and  God  obey; 

And  God  himself  seemed  pleased,  and  near, 

And  bent  to  him  a  willing  ear; 

And  reigning  long,  from  year  to  year 

He  grew  in  favor,  and  was  blest — 
Above  all  kings  'twas  manifest 
His  kingdom  was  the  happiest. 

****** 

O  Soul  of  mine!     In  eager  quest 
Of  God  himself  and  that  sweet  rest 
He  giveth  those  He  loveth  best; 

Learn  from  this  king,  with  glad  surprise 
Penance  alone  will  not  suffice; 
And  though  all  things  you  sacrifice 

God's  love  to  gain,  you  cannot  press 
Near  to  His  throne,  with  aught  that's  less 
Than  gifts,  that  love  for  all  express; 

And  sweeter  service  none  can  bring. 
To  honor  Him,  our  Lord  and  King, 
Than  service  for  earth's  suffering. 


THE  GREAT  TEACHER. 

An  Invocation. 

The  Lord  himself  came  down  one  day, 
And  made  on  earth  a  transient  stay, 
To  teach  all  men  the  Truth,  the  Way. 

The  hills  He  trod,  the  valleys  prest 
With  willing  feet,  and  found  no  rest, 
Save  in  those  homes,  the  lowliest. 

No  temples  welcomed  here  the  Lord; 
But,  seated  on  the  verdant  sward, 
The  humble  gladly  heard  His  word. 

Rude  fishermen,  by  Galilee, 

Heard  His  sweet  call,  "  Come,  follow  Me! 

The  Lord  hath  need  of  such  as  thee." 

And  straightway,  as  they  heard  His  call, 
They  left  their  nets,  forsaking  all, 
Not  knowing  what  would  them  befall. 

Forth  to  the  fields,  a  teacher  true, 
He  led  them  where  the  lilies  grew — 
All  questions  of  the  heart  He  knew; 

And  knowing  these:   "  Behold  how  fair, 
In  lands  untilled,  these  lilies  are; 
Of  these  your  Father  taketh  care; 

138 


THE  GREAT  TEACHER.  139 

And  Solomon,  though  rich,  at  ease, 
With  every  gift  the  sense  to  please, 
Was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these." 

Then,  as  with  hushed  and  bated  breath, 
To  these  poor  fishermen  he  saith, 
He  shall  cloth  you,  of  little  faith." 

Assurance  gained,  "  Now  Lord!  we  see, 
We  nothing  lose  in  gaining  Thee. 
Pray  tell  us  what  the  end  shall  be." 

Thus  leading  them,  and  teaching  them, 
A  blessing  in  His  garments'  hem, 
They  reach  at  last  Jerusalem. 

Jerusalem,  the  great,  the  old, 

Whose  temple  walls  a  shrine  doth  hold, 

Where  God  meets  man,  by  faith  made  bold; 

Jerusalem,  its  new-found  King, 

To  whom  the  shepherds  homage  bring, 

And  wise  men  bow  low,  worshipping; 

Jerusalem,  whose  walls  outlie 

The  realms  of  sense,  veiled  in  a  sky 

That  holds  from  Christ  no  mystery. 

****** 

Dear  Lord !  this  world  of  ours  is  full 
Of  souls,  who  would  be  worshipful; 
But  sight  is  dim,  and  sense  is  dull. 


140  THE  GREAT  TEACHER. 

The  written  Word  is  not  for  them; 

They  needs  must  touch  Thy  garment's  hem, 

And  see  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Lead  Thou  into  the  fields  again, 
As  Thou  didst  lead  poor  fishermen, 
And  teach  them  higher  truths  to  ken. 

Through  things  of  sense  reach  higher  things, 
From  whence  the  soul  may  mount  on  wings 
Away  from  Doubt's  strange  whisperings. 

Teach  them  through  these,  that  God  is  good, 
And  dwells  not  in  a  solitude, 
Where  human  souls  cannot  intrude; 

That  faith  in  Him  is  faith  in  Thee — 
Thou,  who  hast  solved  all  mystery 
And  made  salvation  boundless,  free. 


BEAUTY. 

A  Rhapsody. 

The  rapture  of  my  life  has  been, 

Things  beautiful  to  see — 
With  wonder,  I  look  out  upon 

The  glorious  imagery 
Of  Nature,  as  with  changing  moods, 
She  decks  the  verdant  fields  and  woods. 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  know 
The  choicest  gifts  are  mine — 

I  drink,  and  yet  am  ever  dry; 
As  monks,  their  mellow  wine 

Quaff  in  dark  cells,  and  feel  the  glow 

Of  sunshine,  bottled  long  ago. 

I  do  not  wonder  age  should  bring, 

At  times,  a  sense  of  chill; 
I  wonder  most,  this  heart  of  mine, 

Grown  old,  should  feel  the  thrill 
That  beauty  gives,  and  see  and  know 
The  things  that  charm  life's  pathway  so. 

I  cannot,  if  I  would,  deny 

The  beauty  that  I  see — 
Sometimes,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

In  glorious  company 
I  wait  attent,  perchance  to  hear 
The  music  of  some  other  sphere. 
141 


I42  BEAUTY. 

I  wait  to  see  rare  beauty  shown, 

Nor  do  I  wait  in  vain ; 
I  see  it  on  the  mountain  sides, 

I  see  it  on  the  plain — 
1  see  it  in  the  glowing  skies, 
And  start  with  wonder  and  surprise. 

Above,  beneath,  around  I  see 

New  beauty  every  day, 
And  I  have  treasures  all  my  own, 

For  which  I  toil  nor  pay : 
These  in  the  markets  are  not  sold, 
Or  traded  for  the  rich  man's  gold. 

This  earthly  life  has  pains  I  know — 
I've  seen  the  sun  break  through 

A  rift  of  thunder-cloud,  and  show 
A  land  transfigured,  new; 

And  glorified  beneath  the  shade, 

The  sombre  clouds  above  had  made. 

The  ministry  of  pain  may  be 

The  shadow,  after  all, 
Whence,  breaking  through,  the  cheering  rays 

May  every  sense  enthral; 
And  beauty,  else  unseen,  may  show 
How  much,  to  even  pain  we  owe. 


BEAUTY. 

Oh,  man  !  The  greater  gifts  belong 
To  no  condition,  clime  — 

The  common  things  of  life  can  make 
This  life  of  ours  sublime : 

New  inspirations  everywhere 

Invite  the  soul  in  these  to  share. 


143 


The  New  Year  comes,  knocks  at  our  very  door, 
And  gently  whispers  "  Eighteen — ninety — four." 
I  turn  to  see  the  stranger,  hence  my  guest, 
And  bid  him  enter,  proffer  cheer  and  rest. 
He  enters  quickly,  seems  inclined  to  stay — 
I  wonder  what  this  strange  guest  has  to  say ! 
144 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  145 

Brings  it  some  gift  my  home  and  hearth  to  cheer  ? 

Some  hope  to  make  life's  dim  horizon  clear  ? 
Whilst  on  the  threshold,  does  its  coming  seem 
Like  the  enchantment  of  some  happy  dream  ? 

Or,  does  it  come  drenched  with  the  falling  tears 

Of  sorrows,  common  to  the  vanished  years  ? 

No  man  can  tell.     We  only  know,  at  best, 

It  comes  to  stay  a  twelve-month;  and  the  rest 

1^  known  to  God.     The  future  is  with  Him, 

And  all  the  past  is  fading  in  the  dim 
Receding  light,  of  years  that  quickly  fled, 
And  left  us  mindful  only  of  our  dead. 

Some  joys  we  had — some  griefs  we  had  as  well; 

And  the  New  Year  must  something  have  to  tell. 
If  life,  or  death  ?     With  list'ning  ear  we  wait — 
We  only  know  God's  love  is  very  great; 

And  this  New  Year,  God's  servant,  can  but  tell, 

If  life  or  death,  "  He  doeth  all  things  well." 

Take  courage,  soul!    Grapple,  as  best  you  can, 
The  friends  you  have,  and  on  a  larger  plan 

Shape  life  and  action;  then  as  days  go  by, 

The  tangled  threads  of  human  destiny 
Shall  be  unravelled.     Learn,  O  soul  of  mine ! 
To  make  life's  pattern,  after  God's  design. 


THE  HUDSON  AND  THE  PALISADES, 

From  Park  Hill,  on  a  Misty  Morning. 

Like  a  veiled  Prophet,  whose  far-seeing  eye 

Has  looked  on  all  things — seen  the  destiny 
Of  human  progress,  and  retired  to  hold 
Closer  communion  with  thoughts  manifold; 

So  hides  the  Hudson,  quite  content  to  be 

Safe  from  all  vision,  and  itself  left  free 

For  secret  worship,  knowing  well  that  prayer 
Seems  hallowed  most,  withdrawn  from  earthly  care. 

The  cliffs  beyond,  so  seamed,  and  gashed,  and  rude, 

Are  lost  in  depths  of  greatest  solitude. 
Erstwhile  they  seemed  intent  alone  to  see 
What  man  could  do,  with  great  ambitions  free; 

Looked  down  on  cities,  towns,  with  glad  surprise — 

On  toiling  Labor,  making  sacrifice 

For  human  needs — on  Trade,  with  its  demands, 
And  Commerce  seeking  other  shores  and  lands; 

Now  they  have  vanished.     No  great  walls  arise 
To  prop  the  arches  of  the  vaulted  skies; 
And  dreamy  mists,  in  softest  folds  of  grey 
Robe  forest  trees,  and  on  the  rough  rocks  lay 
A  softer  mantle  than  rich  princes  wear 
On  gala  days, — Alas!  that  man  should  share 
In  Nature's  moods  but  seldom,  and  should  be 
Contented  most  with  life's  dull  drudgery. 
146 


THE  NEW  BABY. 

Something  new  has  come  "  our  way 
Just  a  baby!  will  it  pay  ? 
Never  mind  what  people  say, 

Baby's  come,  and  we  should  be 

Boundless  in  our  charity; 
And,  I  am  inclined  to  guess, 
Come  an  earthly  home  to  bless. 

Music-maker,  is  it?  well! 

Ask  a  mother's  lips  to  tell, 
Ask  a  father,  very  proud, 
He  will  answer  quick  and  loud — 
"Music-maker!    Gracious!    My! 

I  had  rather  hear  a  cry 
From  that  baby's  lips,  than  hear 
Notes  that  charm  the  finest  ear — 

It's  an  angel,  without  wings, 

And  supremest  joy  it  brings." 

Somewhere  I  have  seen  and  heard 
Just  the  sweetest  singing  bird, 
Gay  of  plumage;  and  it  stirred 
All  my  being — such  a  trill ! 
For  it  seemed  the  land  to  fill; 
But  no  music-making  throat, 
That  essays  the  sweetest  note, 
Can,  with  baby's  lips  express 
New-found,  perfect  happiness. 


148  THE  HUDSON  AND  THE  PALISADES. 

In  the  morning  waking,  free 

From  all  care,  she  seems  to  be 
Something  holy;  and  at  noon 
You  should  hear  the  baby  croon; 

And  at  night,  with  closing  eyes, 

She's  a  seraph  in  disguise. 

All  the  sweetest  things  of  earth 
Came  and  crowned  her  at  her  birth.' 

"  One  would  hardly  think  that  she, 
Such  a  charming  mystery, 

Could  with  common  people  be 
Quite  content — would  hardly  stay 
From  that  '  other  land  '  away; 
Still  she  stays,  and  seems  to  know 
She  was  made  to  laugh  and  grow; 
And  she  tries  her  best  to  say 
Cunning  things,  in  baby  way." 

Holy!  Holy!  Babyhood! 

Young  Immortal!  pure  and  good. 
In  a  mother's  arms  she  lies 
Safely  guarded — nothing  dies 

That  a  mother's  love  has  known — 

Love  has  boundless  power,  its  own; 
And  in  Fatherhood  I  see 
What  the  love  of  God  must  be. 


CHILDHOOD. 

By  a  river,  broad  and  sweeping, 
Stands  a  mansion  quaint  and  old, 

Rich  in  statues,  rich  in  pictures, 
Rich  in  plate  of  solid  gold; 

Rich  in  all  those  costly  trappings, 
By  the  crafty  tradesman  sold. 

Dogs  and  guns,  and  steeds  of  mettle, 
Wait  the  sportsman's  practiced  hand, 

And  a  gaily  painted  vessel 
Chafes  its  keel  in  river  sand; 

And  a  dozen  sturdy  seamen, 

Bide  the  Master's  least  command. 

Birds  of  plumage  from  the  tropics, 
Birds  of  sweetest  song,  and  rare, 

In  their  gilded  cages  swinging 
Sing,  upon  the  perfumed  air 

Songs,  that  ever  seem  the  sweetest, 
When  the  fruits  of  love  they  share. 

As  beneath  the  meadow  grasses, 
Unseen  serpents  coil,  or  glide, 

So  there  dwelleth  hidden  sorrows 
In  the  homes  of  wealth  and  pride; 

Whilst  the  envious  heart  is  looking 
Only,  on  the  better  side. 
149 


1 50  CHILDHOOD. 

Lo!  the  Matron's  heaving  bosom 
Yields,  too  often,  but  a  sigh, 

And  a  vain  desire  is  pictured, 
In  the  Master's  thoughtful  eye; 

For  the  choicest  of  earth's  treasures, 
Wealth  has  not  wherewith  to  buy. 

Bursting  sounds  of  childish  laughter, 
Ring  not  through  their  princely  halls, 

And  no  lisping  voices  answer 
To  the  Master,  when  he  calls. 

And  no  faces  of  young  children, 
Image  those  upon  the  walls. 


Lives,  not  far,  a  sturdy  couple, 

In  a  cottage  hardly  neat, 
Who,  with  willing  hands,  and  frugal, 

Scarce  can  earn  the  food  they  eat; 
For,  with  every  stroke  of  labor, 

Chimes  the  patter  of  young  feet. 

But  their  lives  abound  with  blessings, 
Though  they  get  a  scanty  share 

Of  the  good  things  wealth  could  furnish- 
With  their  children  plump  and  fair, 

They  forget  life's  lesser  treasures, 
In  the  wealth  they  would  not  spare. 


CHILDHOOD.  151 

O,  the  blessed  gift  of  childhood — 

Home  must  have  a  vacant  place, 
Where  the  presence  of  young  children, 

Each,  with  laughter-loving  face, 
Hallow  not  man's  best  affections, 

Yield  no  ministry  of  grace. 


SPRING  IS  COMING. 

There's  a  new  "feel"  in  the  air, 
Skies  are  clearing,  days  are  fair, 
And  there  runneth  everywhere 
A  new  impulse;  even  now, 
Ere  the  farmer  starts  his  plough. 
Sweet  Arbutus  rubs  her  eyes, 
Looking  out  with  glad  surprise : 
And,  in  sheltered  places  shows 
Tints  that  mimic  well  the  rose: 
Daffodils  look  up  at  noon, 
Knowing  Spring  is  coming  soon. 

Yesterday  a  blue  bird  came, 
And  a  robin — breast  aflame — 
Sang  a  song.     What  a  shame 

Birds  and  blossoms  first  should  bring 

Tribute  to  the  coming  Spring! 
Whilst  the  lips  of  men  are  still 
Prophets  of  impending  ill. 

Birds  are  wiser  than  we  know; 

Blossoms  by  their  presence  show 
Faith  in  God — a  faith  sublime — 
Coming  in  His  own  good  time. 

All  the  maples  rested  well, 
Have  some  pleasant  tales  to  tell — 
Ere  their  buds  begin  to  swell, 
152 


SPRING  IS  COMING.  153 

Men  and  bees  have  learned  that  they 

Have  sweet  treasures  stored  away; 
And  the  willow's  children  stir, 
Clad  in  garb  of  softest  fir. 

As  in  dream,  the  hills  they  lie 

Veiled  in  purple  mystery, 
Whilst  the  valley  lands,  they  know 
Time  for  all  things  soon  to  grow. 

Aged  men  who  dread  the  cold, 
Take  new  courage  and  grow  bold, 
As  the  charms  of  Spring  unfold. 

In  their  veins  there  seem  to  be 

New  tides  running  joyous,  free; 
Like  old  wine,  these  tides  can  make 
Life  worth  living,  for  life's  sake; 

And  from  childhood,  gladsome  Spring 

Gets  a  royal  welcoming. 
Childhood,  age,  the  birds,  the  flow'rs, 
All  rejoice  in  Spring-time  hours. 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER. 

Hail  this  Madonna,  to  whose  care  is  given 
A  Christ-child,  heir  of  life  immortal,  Heaven; 
In  her  brown  eyes  is  seen  the  cheerful  glow 
Of  love  unchanging,  only  mothers  know — 
Her  face  so  radiant,  in  her  joy  she  seems 
Like  one  enthralled  with  most  delicious  dreams. 
Her  heart  and  hands 
Obey  love's  great  demands, — 
She  binds  hearts  to  her,  as  with  silken  bands. 

With  confidence,  Life's  angel  came  to  her 
And  whispered  softly — she  a  worshipper 

Of  love  and  life — she  listened — was  made  glad, 
And  gave  to  One  the  choicest  gifts  she  had. 
Her  maidenhood  became  enshrined  in  love, 
That  nestled  on  her  like  a  brooding  dove; 
Henceforth  she  drew 
Some  inspirations,  new, 
And  to  their  promptings  she  was  loyal,  true. 

For  her  the  days  go  gladly  tripping  by, 
New  calls  she  hears,  a  new  light  in  her  eye; 
She  is  exalted,  crowned,  a  kingdom  hers, 
With  loyal  subjects — all  true  worshippers; 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER.  155 

Maiden  no  more,  she  takes  a  mother's  place 
And  reigns  supreme,  with  most  benignant  grace. 

Though  her  domain 

Is  not  exempt  from  pain, 
She  yields  no  'vantage  that  can  hope  sustain. 

Mother  and  child,  together  are  a  part 
Of  that  great  kingdom  God  has  set  apart 

For  holy  purpose,  where,  henceforth  shall  rise 
From  hallowed  altars,  flames  of  sacrifice, 
The  glow  of  which,  shall  truest  joy  impart, 
And  loyal  hold  the  most  impetuous  heart; 
A  new-found  grace 
Has  found  a  dwelling-place 
In  human  hearts,  no  sin  can  quite  efface. 

O  Motherhood !     Earth  has  no  crowns  or  state 
That  equals  thine — new  lands  thou  dost  create 
Peopled  by  those,  who  willing  homage  pay 
To  love  and  virtue — these  but  own  thy  sway; 
And  childhood  here,  free  from  all  dread  alarms, 
Lies  safely  sheltered  in  a  mother's  arms — 
A  mother's  prayer 
God  answers  everywhere, 
And  Heaven  bends  low,  the  blessing  large  to  share. 


AS  HOME,  THE  COWS  WERE  DRIVEN. 

'  Co  Bos!  Co  Bos!  Co  Bos!  "  I  cried— 

The  doves  were  billing,  cooing, 
And  gentle  May  had  turned  aside, 

From  April's  fitful  wooing; 
The  pasture  fields  were  all  alive 

With  grasses,  green  and  growing, 
And  grains,  that  make  the  farmer  thrive, 

Their  tender  shoots  were  showing. 
Ah!  then  it  was,  "  Co  Bos!  "  I  cried 

In  accents,  strong  and  cheery; 
For  one  was  ever  by  my  side, 

With  footsteps  never  weary, 

As  home  the  cows  were  driven. 

Those  days  I  never  can  forget, 

So  full  of  life  and  beauty; 
Nor  her,  whose  footsteps  often  met 

My  own,  in  childhood's  duty. 
For  her  I  plucked  the  early  flowers, 

Through  all  the  pasture  growing — 
With  her  there  were  no  tedious  hours, 

And  whether  coming,  going, 
'  Co  Bos!  Co  Bos!  "  I  cried  with  joy, 

Her  voice,  to  mine,  replying — 
I  was  indeed  a  happy  boy, 
And  time  was  swiftly  flying, 

As  home  the  cows  were  driven. 
156 


For  her  I  plucked  the  early  flowers, 
Through  all  the  pasture  growing." 


AS  HOME,  THE  COWS  WERE  DRIVEN.  157 

Sometimes,  when  the  declining  day 

Its  crimson  lights  was  showing, 
I  turned  to  her,  in  boyish  way, 

And  saw  the  same  lights  glowing 
In  her  sweet  face — I  little  knew 

What  love  meant,  strong,  undying — 
I  only  said,  "  I  will  be  true," 

She  simply,  but  replying, 
Co  Bos!  Co  Bos!  "  and  I  with  her 

Kept  calling,  calling,  calling — 
We  made  the  woodland  echoes  stir, 

As  fast  the  dews  were  falling, 

And  home  the  cows  were  driven. 

Since  then,  long  years  have  passed,  and  I 

Oft  tried  in  ways  of  duty, 
Have  to  all  impulse  made  reply; 

But  never  yet  has  beauty 
So  thrilled  my  soul,  as  when  with  her, 

Through  grassy  uplands  straying, 
My  heart,  a  willing  worshipper, 

Kept  with  the  echoes  saying 
Co  Bos !  Co  Bos !  " — both  heart  and  voice 

In  tenderness  replying, 
And  Nature,  seeming  to  rejoice — 

How  swift  the  time  went  flying, 

As  home  the  cows  were  driven. 


JUNE  IS  HERE. 

Fellow  man !  with  cares  opprest, 
June  is  here — has  done  her  best 
Every  sense  of  joy  to  thrill, 
Working  out,  with  right  good  will 
Plans,  that  make  the  world  to-day 
Regal,  with  her  rare  display. 

For  the  hills,  a  crown  she  weaves 
Of  the  softest,  greenest  leaves — 

For  the  valleys,  has  a  dress 

Of  the  rarest  loveliness, 
Decked  with  roses,  and  more  fair 
Than  the  proudest  queens  can  wear. 

June  is  passing,  soon  will  go, 
Having  done  her  best  to  show 
Nature,  all  intent,  and  free 
With  her  helpful  ministry; 
All  things  living  and  astir, 
Should  pay  homage  unto  her. 

June  can  hardly  venture  in 
City  streets,  so  great  the  din — 

Pavements  were  not  made  for  her, 

She  is  not  a  worshipper 
At  the  shrine  that  wealth  has  made, 
For  the  greedy  Sons  of  Trade. 
158 


JUNE  IS  HERE.  159 

In  the  country,  she  can  go 
Wheresoe'er  the  free  winds  blow; 

Country  lanes  she  understands, 

And  in  all  the  meadow  lands 
She  is  just  at  home,  to  show 
Where  the  sweetest  blossoms  grow. 

In  the  morning,  wet  with  dew, 

June  has  worshippers — a  few 
Who  adore  her.     Children  pass 
Through  the  tangled  meadow  grass 

Seeking  flowers,  June  has  thrown 

From  her  girdle,  overblown. 

Such  a  wealth  of  bloom  has  she, 
That  the  whole  land  seems  to  be 

But  a  garden,  tilled  with  care, 

Breathing  fragrance  everywhere; 
And  all  birds  and  bees  attest, 
They,  with  her,  are  happiest. 

O  that  men  should  ever  be 

Blind,  to  what  their  eyes  should  see — 

All  of  life,  so  out  of  tune 

That  they  cannot  give  to  June 
Thought  or  feeling — so  intense 
Are  the  meaner  ways  of  sense. 


THE  SUMMER  RAIN. 

The  parched  earth  conquered  by  the  torrid  sun, 
Waited  deliverance.     Scarce  had  day  begun, 
Ere  southern  hills  gave  tokens  of  surprise — 
Advancing  hosts  hung  banners  in  the  skies, 
And  moving  slowly  o'er  the  thirsty  plain, 
Dropped,  with  free  hand,  the  longed-for  blessed  rain. 
As  if  afraid  the  withered  earth  would  hold 
Relief  as  vain,  if  in  approach  too  bold, 
With  gentle  touch  they  brought  relief,  and  made 
No  bee  opprest,  or  singing  bird  afraid. 

No  plant  or  flower,  no  leaf  of  shrub  or  tree, 
But  smiled  approval.     Wee  things  that  we  see, 
Clad  in  soft  raiment,  dainty  wrought  and  thin, 
Held  up  their  heads;  and  webs  the  spiders  spin, 
Were  little  marred — so  gently  fell  the  rain; 
And  earth  rejoiced,  and  all  took  heart  again. 
No  dreamer  I,  though  doubtless  angels  fair, 
Peopled  the  clouds,  and  thronged  the  realms  of  air; 
And,  list'ning  heard  I,  as  a  glad  refrain, 
This  song  as  sung  by  myriad  drops  of  rain : 

Slip!     Slide!     Downward  glide ! 

In  the  clouds  great  stores  abide; 
Messengers  of  God  are  we — 
His  are  mercies,  boundless,  free. 

Listen  to  our  song  and  know 

All  the  sweetest  things  that  grow 
160 


THE  SUMMER  RAIN.  161 

Hail  us,  crown  us,  gladly  tell 
"  Rain  drops  do  their  mission  well." 

Slip!     Slide!     Downward  glide ! 
We  are  blessings  sanctified. 

Daisy  blooms,  and  clover  leas, 

Fields  of  grain,  and  forest  trees, 
Bid  us  welcome;  and  the  birds, 
Knowing  not  the  form  of  words, 

Carol  forth,  as  best  they  may, 

Songs,  to  cheer  us  on  our  way. 

Slip!     Slide!     Downward  glide ! 
All  good  things  with  us  abide-. 

Needful  food  is  ours  to  give, 

And  the  proudest  men  that  live 
Wait  for  us  to  come  and  bless 
All  their  lands  with  fruitfulness. 

Listen  to  our  song,  and  know 

Freely  we  our  gifts  bestow. 

Slip!     Slide!     Downward  glide ! 
Earth  and  cloud  are  close  allied. 

Listen  to  our  pattering  feet 

As  we  thread  the  dusty  street! 
See  us  in  the  fields,  at  play, 
Making  this  a  holiday. 

Lo!  we  do  the  best  we  can 

For  both  bird,  and  beast,  and  man. 


OCTOBER'S  MOON. 

October's  Moon,  the  fair  Queen  of  the  sky 
Looks  down  on  earth,  in  glorious  majesty. 

At  her  approach,  the  stars  withdraw  from  sight, 
Hiding  behind  the  blue  robes  of  the  night. 
They  count  it  gain 
That  brightest  moons  must  wane, 
And  leave  them  peerless  in  the  sky's  domain. 

I  sometimes  think  October's  Moon  must  be 
So  near  to  earth,  it  knows  the  destiny 

Of  earthly  things,  and,  like  a  prophet,  sees 
Future  events,  with  all  life's  mysteries. 
Its  mellow  light 
In  the  great  halls  of  night 
Adds  charm  to  charm,  and  most  supreme  delight. 

October's  Moon  bids  her  swift  coursers  fly 
Through  the  blue  fields  of  this  October  sky. 
At  her  approach,  fell  spirits  hide  away 
In  gloomy  caves — so  well  she  mimics  Day. 
Young  lovers  know 
How  great  the  debt  they  owe 
To  the  full  Moon,  that  charms  love's  pathway  so. 

Great  oceans  bide  her  least  command,  and  rise 
To  greet  her  passage  through  the  vaulted  skies; 
162 


OCTOBER'S  MOON.  163 

Or,  when  she  wills,  shrink  quite  appalled  away 
And  bare  the  rocks,  else  washed  with  ocean  spray. 

Months  run  a  race 

Her  near  approach  to  grace, 
And  look  up,  smiling,  in  her  beauteous  face. 

O  Queen  of  Heaven!     October  somehow  knows 
And  loves  thee  best.     New  charms  it  doth  disclose 
And  makes  her  Moon,  full  orbed,  a  joy  supreme, 
And  more  entrancing  than  a  lover's  dream. 
If  far  or  near, 
It  doth  not  yet  appear 
Where  Heaven  must  be — its  light  seems  shining  here. 


MEMORIES  OF  LONG  AGO. 

Pulling  Flax. 

The  memories  of  Long  Ago, 

Sometimes,  comes  sauntering  back, 
Just  to  remind  these  later  days 

How  many  things  they  lack. 
The  sun  shone  then,  as  it  shines  now, 

But  Time  was  slow  of  gait, 
As  to  our  daily  tasks  we  went, 

From  early  morn  till  late; 
But  when  September  came,  why  then 

We  bent  our  aching  backs, 
Just  pulling  all  the  long,  long  day 

The  toughly  fibered  flax. 

At  morn,  we  always  started  in 

With  cheery  laugh,  and  song; 
For  having  rested  well  all  night, 

We  felt  refreshed,  and  strong; 
But  ere  September's  noon  came  round, 

A  laugh  was  something  rare — 
Young  faces  grew  as  sober  as 

A  penitent  at  prayer. 
How  well  I  call  to  mind  those  days, 

They  tried  our  aching  backs, 
As  under  the  September  skies, 

We  pulled  the  fibered  flax. 
164 


MEMORIES  OF  LONG  AGO.  165 

Our  father,  then  a  stalwart  man, 

Tried  many  ways  to  cheer — 
Alas!  he  in  the  graveyard  sleeps, 

With  other  friends,  most  dear — 
He  tried  to  tell  that  linen  pants 

Were  needful  things,  and  would 
With  linen  shirts,  well  whitened  out, 

Be  very  neat  and  good. 
We  understood  him  very  well: 

But  then,  our  aching  backs 
Could  but  remind  us  of  the  pain 

That  came  from  pulling  flax. 

A  few  old  people  still  are  left — 

Their  locks  are  white  and  thin — 
Who  recollect,  with  me,  the  days 

When  mother  used  to  spin 
The  shining  fiber,  and  her  wheel 

Made  music,  all  day  long, 
As  fast  the  twisted  fiber  ran 

From  her  deft  fingers,  strong. 
The  music  of  her  busy  wheel 

Is  stilled,  and  real  life  lacks 
Full  many  very  useful  things 

That  came  from  pulling  flax. 

Somehow,  I  cannot  help  but  feel 
The  old  days  were  the  best; 


166  MEMORIES  OF  LONG  AGO. 

There  was  a  zest  in  sturdy  toil, 

And  with  it  came  sweet  rest. 
The  memories  of  long  ago, 

They  will  come  back  at  times, 
And  poets  should  embalm  them  all, 

In  most  harmonious  rhymes; 
And  could  I  bring  them  back  again, 

My  manhood  I  would  tax, 
And  pull,  through  long  September  days 

The  toughly  fibered  flax. 


MY  TRUST. 

In  simple  trust  this  faith  I  hold: 
Age  need  not  make  the  old  man  old, 
And  life's  sure  burthens  hard  to  bear, 
And  on  the  soul  draw  lines  of  care. 

If,  but  at  times  the  heart  is  stirred 
By  hymn  of  love,  and  song  of  bird — 
If  man  but  strives,  as  best  he  may, 
To  catch  life's  music  by  the  way. 

What  cause  for  pain,  if  we  but  know 
That  Age  may  reap  the  fields  we  sow — 
That  ripe  experience  with  it  brings 
Rare  joys,  not  borne  on  transient  wings  ? 

Who  would  be  young  alway  ?     For  youth 
Bars  passage  to  the  realm  of  truth, 

And  that  maturer  thought,  that  brings 
A  keener  sense  of  men  and  things. 

Doubt  not,  O  Soul !  God's  love  decreed, 
Your  life  should  find  its  greatest  need — 
That  childhood's  days  should  only  be, 
But  little  more  than  prophecy — 

A  dream,  a  sense  of  something  higher, 

The  kindling  of  a  new  desire — 
A  light,  that  only  from  the  west, 
With  glory  crowns  the  hill-tops  best. 
167 


i68  MY  TRUST. 

Aye,  welcome  age,  and  welcome  thought! 

And  life's  experience,  often  bought 

With  pain,  and  streams  of  scalding  tears 
That  flood  the  valleys  of  our  years. 

Welcome,  ye  fields!  that  wait  to  hear 
The  harvest  song  of  reapers  near; 

And  though  the  day  seems  long  with  toil, 
The  creaking  wains  shall  groan  with  spoil. 

Then  when  the  dews  fall  thick  and  fast, 
Hie  homeward  to  the  sweet  repast, 
And  long  repose,  quiet  and  deep, 
Whilst  Night  stands  sentinel  for  Sleep. 

Aye,  welcome  Age !  and  let  it  be 

A  reaper,  in  life's  harvest  free; 

Cheered  by  the  pleasant  songs  of  yore, 
And  by  the  prospect,  just  before. 

A  reaper,  somewhat  scarred,  'tis  true, 
Seamed  with  the  frost,  and  blanched  with  dew, 

But  in  his  hand  the  precious  grain, 

If  his  life-labor  be  not  vain. 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 

Written  after  a  visit  to  the  Old  Mission,  Santa  Barbara,  Cal., 
May  21,  1893. 

Lord!  how  shall  man  find  sweet  content, 
Rejoice,  in  all  life's  burthens  sent, 
The  right  pursue,  of  wrongs  repent  ? 

The  world  is  full  of  gloomy  creeds, 
Of  priests,  who  prate  of  human  needs, 
And  drape  the  earth  in  mourning  weeds. 

These  make  of  sacrifice  a  gain, 
And  seek  the  glad  soul  to  restrain, 
With  thoughts,  that  savor  most  of  pain. 

Here,  in  dark  cells,  grey  Monks  abide, 
And  seek  in  solitude  to  hide 
Away  from  sinful  lust  and  pride. 

Does  virtue  thrive  in  ways  like  these  ? 
And  can  the  pain  of  wounded  knees 
In  some  way,  wrath  Divine  appease  ? 

Can  constant  vigil,  constant  pain 
A  father's  gracious  love  retain  ? 
Does  mercy  thus  advantage  gain  ? 

****** 
God  made  the  world.     These  mountains  rise 
On  either  hand;  between  them  lies 
A  valley  land — a  Paradise, 
169 


170  QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 

Where  man  content  can  daily  see 
Nature,  with  costly  bounties  free — 
The  tribute  of  both  land  and  sea. 

Lo!  the  whole  earth  that  He  has  made 
Rejoices,  in  both  sun  and  shade; 
And  Night  itself  is  not  afraid 

Of  stars  that  shed  a  cheerful  light, 

So  beautiful,  that  even  night 

Yields  to  man's  sense,  a  rare  delight. 

Birds  sweetly  sing,  and  flowers  fair 
Breathe  sweetest  fragrance  on  the  air — 
Like  incense  burned  at  evening  prayer. 

Rare  fruits  their  juicy  spheres  expand 
And  ripen,  at  our  God's  command, 
And  fill  with  fruitage  all  the  land. 

All  things  in  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
Combine  to  please  the  taste,  and  eye, 
And  all  our  needful  wants  supply; 

And  every  sense  is  made  to  tell 

God's  love  to  man — a  miracle 

Of  loving  grace,  no  tongue  can  swell. 

***** 
That  sin  is  in  the  world,  we  know; 
Tares  with  the  wheat  too  often  grow, 
And  on  scarred  fields,  the  grain  we  sow. 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER.  171 

With  many  pains  and  aches  we  till 
The  fields,  that  must  our  garners  fill — 
Life  has  some  recompense  for  ill. 

Rising  betimes  from  beds  of  pain, 
Life  seems  some  added  zest  to  gain 
In  the  full  tide  of  health  again. 

Night  follows  day  the  world  around; 

But  in  the  darkness,  rest  is  found, 

And  Slumber's  touch  leaves  scar,  nor  wound. 

Soon,  in  the  east,  swift  heralds  fly, 
Telling  the  jocund  day  is  nigh: 
And  wave  their  banners  in  the  sky. 

Then,  Night  affrighted,  hides  away — 
No  moon  or  star,  her  steps  can  stay; 
And  up,  triumphant,  comes  the  day, 

And  all  the  world,  refreshed  and  strong, 
Awakes  from  sleep,  and  greets  with  song 
The  labors,  that  to  day  belong. 

****** 

Rest  is  not  pain,  toil  is  not  care — 
The  soul's  most  unavailing  prayer 
Is  for  relief  from  its  full  share 

Of  what  life  brings;  both  joy  and  pain 
Are  links  in  the  completed  chain, 
That  must  our  doubting  hopes  sustain. 


i?2  QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 

The  constant  pleadings  of  our  needs 

In  human  life,  are  but  the  seeds, 

Whence  spring  the  germs  of  useful  creeds; 

And  germ  and  creed  alike  are  blest 

To  those  in  service  happiest; 

And  love  finds  constant  service  best. 

Away  with  all  your  creeds  of  hate ! — 
Praise  God!  His  love  is  very  great; 
He  lifts  man  up  to  high  estate. 

His  gifts  He  freely  doth  bestow, 
That  man  His  larger  love  may  know: 
And  in  this  faith,  Lord!  help  us  grow. 

Then,  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 
The  ills  that  fret  us  shall  appear 
But  shadows,  that  reveal  more  clear 

His  boundless  love.     Praise  God!  that  day, 
If  soon  or  late,  will  well  repay 
The  trials  borne  along  life's  way. 

****** 

But  reason  fails.  The  old  complaint 
That  makes  the  helpless  sinner  faint, 
Disturbs  the  dream  of  thoughtful  saint; 

And  saint  and  sinner,  each  must  find 
God's  providence  is  always  kind, 
And  to  a  larger  love  inclined. 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER.  173 

Who  bravely  bears  life's  seeming  ills, 

The  mission  of  his  life  fulfills; 

And  he,  whose  soul  with  rapture  thrills 

For  blessings  sent,  should  not  essay 
Unmoved,  to  bear  these  gifts  away, 
Or  deem  that  tears  his  debt  can  pay. 

Sometime,  we  know  not  when,  or  where, 

The  many  victims  of  despair 

Shall  learn  this  all-prevailing  prayer: 

Not  my  will,  Lord!  but  Thine  be  done, 
Through  Christ,  Thy  well-beloved  Son  " — 
BEHOLD!  THE  GATES  OF  HEAVEN  ARE  WON! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


PS          Sherman  - 


Old  time  memor^ 
ies. 


FS 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS2814  .S335o 
y 


L  009  598  065  2 


